


A Dalliance with the Duke

by AMarguerite



Series: An Ever-Fixed Mark [3]
Category: Pride and Prejudice & Related Fandoms, Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: #forgodssakeyourgrace, Aftercare, Divorce, F/M, Feminist Themes, Fix-It, Friends to Friends with Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Huddling For Warmth, I have the best/worst readers, I still can't believe I wrote this, Napoleonic Wars, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Regency, Regency Romance, Rough Sex, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, That's a lie, a fix-it for history, the duke of wellington's life is way better than it ends up being historically, totally not for anything else!!, well kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2018-09-25 22:16:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 172,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9848762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AMarguerite/pseuds/AMarguerite
Summary: After the Battle of Waterloo, Mrs. Fitzwilliam becomes the new favorite of the Duke of Wellington... just in time to support him through a messy, ahistoric divorce. Things only get more complicated from there.Otherwise known as, "A tumblr anon asked, "If you're ever so bored as to be looking for something ridiculous to fill a prompt- Elizabeth takes him up on his offer? Sees if the 'Iron' Duke lives up to his name?" and I COMMITTED."  Part of my "Ever-Fixed Mark" soulmate AU, though it does not deserve the dignity of a title from a Shakespearean sonnet. It gets a Harlequin Romance title instead.





	1. In which the Duke of Wellington's marital problems are gone over

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to CynicinaFishbowl, Kiralamouse, Dlasta, and Eleith for their help in figuring out just how this would work. And thanks and blame to the anon who prompted me. 
> 
> For those who just want to read about Elizabeth Bennet getting it on with the Duke of Wellington, here's the plot so far: in this world where the name of your "soulmate" appears on your wrist on your sixteenth birthday, Elizabeth Bennet marries Colonel Fitzwilliam shortly after Huntsford. They have a fine time fighting the French out of the Iberian Peninsula, impressing the Duke of Wellington in the process. Colonel Fitzwilliam impresses Wellington so much he is sent to deal with the French at Quatre Bras, and assigned the defense of Hougoumont during the Battle of Waterloo. Our poor colonel dies of septicemia not long after; Wellington escorts Elizabeth to the funeral, and Darcy escorts Elizabeth back to the Fitzwilliams— the Earl of Matlock, his eldest son, Julian, Lord Stornoway; his wife, Marjorie, Lady Stornoway; his eldest daughter, Lady Honoria Fitzwilliam; her girlfriend, Miss Isadora Duncan; and the Stornoway's four children. Everyone's chief concern at present is passing a bill establishing a Royal Army Medical Corps to prevent any further deaths from infected wounds, which Wellington backs.

One late January afternoon when Elizabeth and her sister-in-law, Lady Stornoway, were boring themselves with needlework, the Countess of Lieven glided into the sitting room of Matlock House, looking sour. “I had a dreadful morning, Lady Stornoway. I demand tea, sympathy, and the chair nearest the fire. Ah Mrs. Fitzwilliam! I am glad you are here, you might be able to fix at least one of my torments this morning.”

“I am happy to do so,” said Elizabeth, happily putting aside her work. She was closest to the tea tray and reached over to begin pouring a cup, assuming that the countess’s torments had already been listed. But alas, they were not.

“The next time you see him,” said the countess, sitting down in such a way as to suggest that neither her back nor her neck were capable of bending, “tell the Duke of Wellington that his house is abominably cold! I do not care how much the Duchess has mismanaged the household accounts! He should give her more money for coal. My cup had more ice than tea in it.”

“I do not know that I would have much influence.”

Marjorie and the Countess of Lieven shared an amused look.

“More than I would,” said the Countess of Lieven, primly. “He has not dined at my house every evening for nearly three weeks and _my_ husband did not win him Waterloo.”

“If you tease His Grace about it, my dear sister,” said Marjorie, “I think you might meet with some success. He likes it when you tease him; he doesn’t take offense at the correction. And I am sure you can charmingly protest that the cold is the reason you cannot repay his visits.”

“I cannot repay his visits because I am in mourning,” Elizabeth pointed out, though she’d already thought up a clever quip about frostbite, and was eager to try it on His Grace.

The countess looked loftily amused. “No matter, Mrs. Fitzwilliam. I am Russian; a cold winter is the least of my torments. Indeed, if I gave more credit to the greater of my torments, I might even think it some strange form of hospitality.”

“What other torments did you have, your ladyship?” Marjorie asked, taking the teacup from Elizabeth and passing it over.

“None other than the Duchess herself,” said the Countess Lieven, dryly.

Marjorie sighed. “Yes, Lady Wellington is... Lady Wellington. She is her own exhaustive list of general inconveniences.”

The countess had been sitting on a bon mot and now grandly released it to the room. “There are two major deficits at Apsley House: kindling and Kitty.”

Marjorie smiled behind her upraised teacup. Elizabeth tried not to smile, feeling it was perhaps unkind. As often as she was in the company of the Duke of Wellington, she had seldom seen the Duchess, who never came on campaign, and had avoided company when her husband was Ambassador to Paris. The few overtures Elizabeth had made in Paris had been met with accusations over a host of imagined slights, before lengthy apologies and a reintroduction into Her Grace’s good graces. Elizabeth had not much cared to be in the Duchess’s good graces, as long as she and her husband were still in the Duke's, and politely avoided her thereafter. “I must confess that I was not... particularly impressed with her, when she was with Lord Wellington in Paris. She never visited, and the company at her few parties was infelicitously mixed. No one ever knew what to say to anybody, unless it was to quarrel, and the food was never good enough to provide conversation. I cannot imagine her habits are different in London.”

“You were recruited as a hostess from time to time, weren’t you Lizzy?” asked Marjorie.

“I was, though not _very_ often— there were ladies of more experience and higher rank than I, who could manage the business better.”

The Countess Lieven said, dryly, “Anyone could manage the business better than dear Lady Wellington. She was not made to be an Ambassadress.” Elizabeth supposed the countess would know; Count Lieven was theoretically the Russian ambassador to England, but it was a running joke that Tsar Alexander could have sent the Countess on her own and been just as successful in his diplomatic efforts. “Nor is Lady Wellington meant to a hostess, or a duchess. I think she really would be happiest if she was left alone in the countryside somewhere with a large brood of children. She might have made an excellent squire’s wife.”

“It is a pity she is instead the wife of one of the most public figures in Europe,” said Marjorie. “She ought to have thought about that before she married.”

“Fie, fie,” said the Countess Lieven, taking a biscuit from the tea tray. “I believe the Honorable Miss Catherine Pakenham was engaged to the Honorable Mr. Arthur Wellesley when his mother, the Countess of Mornington, still thought the Honorable Arthur was too useless for any occupation but the army. Miss Pakenham could not have expected him to have become quite so accomplished.” She nibbled on the biscuit, thought Elizabeth could not quite reconcile the word ‘nibbled’ with the Countess’s dignified way of consuming sweets, and asked, “How goes the work of the bill? Have you determined on a date to introduce it to the Lords?”

“We expect to introduce the sixth of February in the Lords,” said Marjorie. “I think we can get it through in a day or two— then it’s over to the Commons.”

“Ah, so the second week Parliament is in session,” said the countess, considering this. “Interesting.”

“We feel it is important enough to warrant an early introduction,” said Marjorie.

“And Wellington, of course, does not leave for France until the eighth or the ninth.”

“There is that,” said Marjorie, quite innocently.

The Countess turned to Elizabeth with a slightly mocking smile. “So I have three weeks more of glacial winter at Apsley House. Come now, Mrs. Fitzwilliam, do not leave me to suffer.”

At Elizabeth’s hesitation, Marjorie said, “You are nearly eight months into your mourning. You can visit now, you know. And I will go with you. You needn’t fear any censure on that head.”

Elizabeth gave into the superior forces of two of London’s most powerful political hostesses. When they were waiting to go into dinner that evening the Duke of Wellington said, “As happy as I am to be continually calling on you, why is it you are never at Apsley House?” Elizabeth saw her chance and took it.

“Because I am a veteran of the Spanish, and not the Russian campaign, Your Grace,” said Elizabeth. “I am grown used to the heat, not the cold, and I have it from very good sources that your drawing room is as close to Moscow as one can get while still remaining within England’s borders.”

“And who did you hear that from?”

“The Countess Lieven,” said she, nodding to this lady. “So you see, I have a native’s opinion on it.”

His Grace looked amused rather than offended. “Come now, Mrs. Fitz! Colonel Fitzwilliam used to boast you were fearsome enough for anything.”

“Except frostbite, sir! I have a dreadful fear of frostbite, which I am very sure I shall get if ever I venture into your house.”

Two days later, the Countess of Lieven sent Elizabeth a basket of Seville oranges and a note reading, ‘To this Russian’s favorite veteran of the Spanish campaign. May we always combine forces to conquer.’ Elizabeth showed this to Marjorie, who sighed and said, “Alas and alack the day— we must go call on the Duchess of Wellington this afternoon. I would be getting cutting hints from the Countess Lieven every day for the rest of the season if I did not.”

“Is it really so bad?”

“Oh, I daresay I am making more of a fuss about it than I ought, but with so little intelligent conversation at home, I hate to go _out_  in search of less of it. Are Honoria and Miss Duncan still in?”

“They are calling on the Miss Berrys.”

Marjorie contented herself with a last sigh, and a wish to be calling on the Miss Berrys herself, before ordering the carriage be brought around.

Elizabeth felt strangely off-kilter to be going out to see people, though part of it, it had to be admitted, was the fact that it was too cold to wear her widow's veil. She had to put on a proper bonnet, and the lace cap _de riguer_ for wives and widows on under it, and this made her neck feel discomfortingly exposed. She had grown used to hiding behind her veil, feeling the light, but constant weight of the comb in her hair, the brush of the black lace mantilla against her shoulders and back. The little lace cap she was currently wearing had, at one point, been another black lace mantilla, but she had cut it down and sewn it up to closely fit the back of her head. It offered no protection, only the reminder that she had once been married. 

She tried to distract herself by looking around the foyer of Apsley House, which was very grand. In pride of place was  a large statue of Napoleon, holding out a golden apple, and wearing nothing but a fig leaf. Elizabeth was not sure why it was there until the footman draped Elizabeth and Marjorie’s cloaks over the statue’s outstretched arm. He popped Elizabeth’s rushed black velvet bonnet over the apple and put Marjorie's purple velvet one, with its spray of violets and soft, curved black ostrich feather about the crown, on the statue’s head.

“I really don't think a high brim suits him,” said Elizabeth unsteadily.

“Yes, one sees why Napoleon only wore a bicorn,” said Marjorie. They did not dissolve into giggles simply because neither of them would have used so girlish a word as giggle. Unfortunately, that was the last time they laughed during that visit.

Wellington was out of the house, meeting privately with Lord Castlereagh, and so they were received only by the Duchess of Wellington, her two boys, and the tutor. While the tutor and the boys were by the fire, the conversation flowed well enough. Marjorie could compare the tutor’s lessons with her governess’s, and Elizabeth asked the boys after their books and their games, but then the tutor bore off the children to their riding lesson, and the Fitzwilliam ladies were left with only the Duchess.

Her Grace did not know either of them well, nor did she have much conversation outside of her children. Marjorie and Elizabeth were neither of them bad conversationalists— indeed, Marjorie rather prided herself on her ability to draw out people, and Elizabeth on her wit— but unless they just talked to each other, occasionally pausing to ask Her Grace her opinion, there was a lamentable tendency to sit in utter silence. Elizabeth began to recall why she had so blithely avoided the Duchess in Paris. Even talk of that great city, which would have animated anyone else, was met with fretfulness, worries about tangential matters, or really quite startling displays of ignorance.

“It is worse than talking with Miss de Bourgh,” said Marjorie, after they left. “Heavens! How can a man like Wellington be married to someone like the Duchess? Did he ever tell you, Lizzy?”

“He never talked of the Duchess,” said Elizabeth, searching her memory, “except to give her excuses as to why she could not come to something. The few times I have seen them together in company, she tends to look worriedly at him while he ignores her— though Colonel Fitzwilliam and I always thought that Wellington had to quarrel with her to go out in company, and that was why she always looked so nervous.”

“Did you ever visit her while she was in Ambassadress?”

“Once or twice, but in general she did not seem to be at home to visitors. The times I did visit, it was fifteen minutes of reassurance about something or other from me and another officer’s wife—Mrs. Kirke, usually— or our overtures being taken the wrong way.”

The example that had most frustrated the officers’ wives was the Duchess of Wellington’s wardrobe. She was never properly dressed. At grand state dinners where the men glittered in gold braid and medals from all nations, formally uniformed or wearing black kneebreeches and white stockings, and the women sparkled in jewels and silk gowns, all got up in _grande tenue_ to do honor to the hosts, the Duchess wore unadorned white muslin, without jewels, or headress. She did not even wear an evening bracelet about her soulmark, but a ribbon, suitable only for day wear. Elizabeth and some of the younger ladies, who had never made the acquaintance of the Duchess before Paris, had tried to drop hints and invite the Duchess on their shopping expeditions, but she took this as an insult, or as some kind of obscure comment on her method of making herself agreeable to her husband: she spent very little on her clothes, in the hopes of making up for her extravagance in household matters.

This attempt at a conciliatory act only caused further argument and estrangement. The Duke of Wellington was constantly in the public eye, and it embarrassed him extremely to have people criticizing his wife's clothing, or commenting on how stingy he must be with her pin money, rather than speaking of anything serious. If she could not dress herself properly, the Duke tended to leave her at home. The Duchess took this as punishment for her mismanagement of the household somehow, and refused to buy new clothes, in an a sartorial ouroboros of marital conflict.

Marjorie looked thoughtfully at Elizabeth and asked, “Lizzy, you must forgive the speculation, but do you think the Duchess... enjoys society?”

“I think she hates it,” said Elizabeth, frankly. “But she is the Duchess of Wellington. I really cannot see how she can avoid it.”

“There is a rumor that makes the rounds that the Duke and the Duchess are not a match.”

“Oh, aye, it made the round in every officer's mess. Wellington was always a soft touch before true matches as a result. The things I got away with!”

Marjorie looked intrigued. “What was the most shocking?”

“Attending Colonel Fitzwilliam’s funeral, sadly enough.” But she did not wish to dwell on this; she hastily changed the subject to, “I really cannot doubt the rumors are true, though.”

“Wellington never told you?”

“I wasn't so particular a favorite until this January,” said Elizabeth, “and I was only ever witty at him in ballrooms or on battlefields before Waterloo.”

“I think one can _tell_ the Wellingtons are not a match. I have no idea why they are still married.”

“Don’t you?”

Marjorie wrinkled her nose. “Fair enough, my dear. I do know. There is positively no way to divorce without scandal. But even with such scandal— why, they are so clearly miserable with the other’s preferred mode of life. A season of discomfort and some snide jokes thereafter is worth avoiding a life of perfect misery.”

“What would you do?”

“If I were the Duchess, you mean?” Marjorie considered this. “A difficult question, sister dear, for I should very much like to be an Ambassadress and to be so important a political hostess. I have a positive horror of being locked away in some country house forever. But if I _was_ a nervous, fretful woman, longing to live a retired life in some small town with a single street of shops... why, I think I would have stopped the ceremony, or requested an annulment as soon as the wedding breakfast was over. If I was so stupid as to continue on in my marriage, I would instigate divorce proceedings. Neglect, perhaps, or adultery, both of which could be easily proven, and would keep my reputation from taking _too_ much of a blow, even if I did have to live with the stigma of being a divorced woman, and probably would never marry again. But those would cast me in the spotlight— which I have just remembered I am supposed to abhor— and would be expensive, and I have just now recalled that I am a terrible housekeeper who never has any money. Hm. So, a quiet way to divorce... oh that is impossible in our rank of life. I can see why Her Ladyship remains as she is. Wellington, I suppose, would never ask for a divorce? He had said that the mark of a good general is knowing when to retreat.”

“I do not think so,” said Elizabeth, pensively. “It would wound his pride. Richard told me once that the Wellingtons had a ten year engagement, or something of the sort. To be committed so long— nearly twenty years, all told— and to have been wrong the entire time? And I do not think he would do anything that would look as if he was casting off the Duchess, just because he is now a great man. He may not get on with her, or be faithful to her, but he would hardly treat her _that_ shabbily.”

“Nor could he bring any charges against the Duchess except for incompatible soul marks,” said Marjorie, with a sigh. “I do not know _anyone_ who would wish their marks to be a matter of public record— and a great man, who must command the respect of foreign troops in a hostile country least of all. I pity the Wellingtons, I truly do. The fact that that are the authors of their own misery only makes it more of a tragedy— in the classical sense you know.”

“Hoisted by their own character flaws?”

“Yes— her timidity and his pride.”

 

***

 

Elizabeth’s pity for the Duchess increased, but her opinion did not improve from repeated exposure. The Duchess was just as keen to imagine slights and take comments the wrong way as she had been in Paris. Indeed, the second time Elizabeth and Marjorie paid a visit to Apsley House, Her Grace did not bother to hide her displeasure with Elizabeth.

Elizabeth was baffled. She had been very anodyne in her conversation on her last visit. Marjorie was equally stumped. When the Duchess made some hasty excuse to get up and check on her children, bashing at each other with wooden swords, Marjorie whispered, “How on earth could _you_ have offended the Duchess of Wellington? Does she dislike Paris? Is that why she is behaving so oddly?”

“No— I do not think she does? Unless she thought I was referring to Signora Grassini or Mademoiselle Georges?” These being two of the most famous of Napoleon’s mistresses, whom Wellington had lost no time in seducing as soon as he reached Paris. The Duchess had never really mentioned her feelings on the subject, or the gossip she no doubt had heard, but Elizabeth could not help but think it would be a sore point.

“Knowing Kitty—” this with a grimace to express Marjorie would rather not know Kitty “—if you mentioned the theatre or the opera, she would take it as an allusion to those... ladies. I cannot recall if you did."

"I talked mostly of my favorite walks.”

“Were you arch at her in a way that convinced her you were making fun of her?”

“I suppose that must be the case,” said Elizabeth, though this struck her as absurd. She took care to mitigate her archness with sweetness, so that she did not offend, even when she her wit was barbed indeed.

The Duchess returned, and settled herself, looking like a hen with rumpled feathers in her old, rather too fussy gown of checked muslin. It was a fabric that ought not to have been pleated, but some unkind modiste had done so, and foisted it on the Duchess, perhaps hoping her eyesight was too bad to tell what sartorial wrong had been done to her. “Such lively boys,” the Duchess twittered.

“I see they are already little soldiers, like their father,” said Elizabeth, in an attempt to be conciliatory.

The Duchess looked in Elizabeth’s direction with an air of aggrieved nervousness. “I am sure they are far too young to be sent away to the army.”

“I only meant that they are sword fighting with proper form already,” said Elizabeth, burying her annoyance behind a bright smile and a tone of light amusement. “They are very accomplished for their age!”

“Oh, yes,” said the Duchess, but the air of pique did not disappear.

Elizabeth sat down her cup and said, “Your Grace, I appear to have inadvertently offended you somehow. I am very sorry for it, but would you tell me what I have done, so that I might take care not to do it again?”

“I thought it very unfeeling of you to talk so cooly of what might put the Duke’s life in danger,” said the Duchess, cool almost to primness.

Elizabeth and Marjorie shared a mystified look.

“You mean... Paris?” Elizabeth asked, unsure how the largest city in Europe was a threat to the Duke of Wellington’s life. She supposed a number of its inhabitants were not the greatest admirers of Wellington, and would not be displeased if he were to suddenly drop dead, but knew of no actual plots, or factions with assassination in mind.

“I mean,” said the Duchess, “when you spoke so unfeelingly of the brawl outside! Telling me that I had no cause for uneasiness, it was only some porters brawling— when you knew Arthur was expected home from his meeting with Castlereagh at any moment!”

Elizabeth was stunned by the absurdity of this reaction. The Duke of Wellington, who had survived decades of ferocious and brutal attacks all over Spain, France, Belgium, Denmark, and India, could not manage to avoid two porters on the opposite side of the street from his house, and would clearly be injured in an incredibly sloppy brawl that was over almost as soon as Elizabeth had seen it? An event so insignificant she had entirely forgotten it had occurred? Even Mrs. Bennet was not so capable of such a baffling misunderstanding.

Feeling glad that the Duchess probably could not make out her expression, Elizabeth said, “I had no intention of frightening you, Your Grace, and I am very sorry to have done so. Really, I had hoped to relieve your anxieties rather than add to them.”

The Duchess was mollified.

Marjorie then tried to introduce some of her typical topics of conversation, but she and Elizabeth might as well have been speaking in Hebrew for all that the Duchess of Wellington understood about politics. Fortunately for Marjorie and Elizabeth (though perhaps not so fortunately for the Duchess of Wellington), the Duke at last entered exclaiming, “Beg pardon ladies, the fool of a butler never told me you were here.”

“We were just talking of our father-in-law's bill,” said Marjorie.

“Ha!” said Wellington. This was a noise he often made, which occasionally startled those around him, and which conveniently signaled he had heard what had been said and no more.

“We are finally sure of the Lords,” said Elizabeth, unable to hide her relief and pleasure.

“Are you, by God? Who else has agreed?”

Marjorie reported, “The Earl of Derby was so obliging as to agree to support it last night, which gives us a majority there.”

“He seemed likely to go that way during the port. I am glad to see you succeeded. Any fears for the Commons?”

“Quite a few, as we are asking them to spend money.”

Elizabeth set down her weak tea, more to be done drinking it than to shew her total absorption in the conversation. “Sometimes I really cannot understand our priorities as a nation. We will vote to pay off the Prince of Wales’s gambling debts but not to give bandages to men wounded in defence of king and country.”

“You must recall that most soldiers go into the profession for lack of other option,” said Marjorie. “It has been some work getting their lordships to recall that their sons and brothers and cousins are the officers of these men and therefore share in their deprivations and injuries, too. I suppose they are more used to thinking ‘what an excellent place to send this poacher’ than anything else, when they think of the army.”

“Your common soldier may be the scum of the earth, but we turn them into very fine fellows,” observed Wellington.

“Oh yes,” said Elizabeth, brightening a little. “At Hougoumont, it wasn’t merely my husband and Lieutenant-Colonel MacDonald who barred the gate, but a corporal James Graham of the Coldstream Guards. He really seems to have been a wonderful soldier; everyone I talked to about Hougoumont was so impressed with him. I think he only fell out of line once, to rescue his brother from the fire.”

“And then fell right back into line,” agreed Wellington. “Extraordinary fellow! He is the bravest man in the army.”

“Whatever happened to him? Is he still with the Coldstream Guards?”

“Yes. I made him a sergeant.”

“I am so glad!” But it was a happiness not unmixed with melancholy; she wondered what promotion Colonel Fitzwilliam might have met with, had he survived. Would he have been knighted for gallantry? She wanted to ask, but could not bring herself to, and lapsed into silence.

Marjorie, realizing that the Duchess had not spoken since the appearance of her husband, said, “I suppose His Grace has told you of our bill?”

“Oh yes, though I am afraid I did not follow it all,” said Her Grace, nervous as a child being quizzed by a tutor, in a subject which they did not understand. “I do not much like politics; I do not pretend otherwise. It seems to me full of men yelling at each other to no purpose. I really cannot understand how anyone can enjoy it, unless they are mad.”

Wellington involuntarily let out an irritated huff. Marjorie struggled to hide her offense at this unintentional insult.

Elizabeth tried to bridge this awkward gap by leaning forward, to say, in a confidential tone, “To tell you the truth, Your Grace, I am not particularly enamoured of politicking either! So much of it relies on being perfectly polite and agreeable to people you despise, and it is sometimes difficult for me to hide what I think.”

“No,” said Wellington, dryly. “You astonish me, Mrs. Fitz.”

Elizabeth smiled at him. “His Grace can well acquaint you of it! I think perhaps one of the worst battles of 1812 was the one between myself and Lady Granville, who was the wife of a colonel in the first division of the Second Battalion. I am very glad she is now in Canada, and we may cordially despise each other across an ocean. But one must get over one’s displeasure for necessity’s sake. We live in such political times! What is discussed in Parliament one day can shape what is in your kitchen cupboard the next. I have a positive horror of sugar now, unless I know it comes from a plantation run by free men.”

The Duchess looked confused.

Marjorie said, in the honeyed voice she used on Lord Stornoway, “Oh, I am glad you were spared this knowledge until now, my dear, but really it is very shocking what happens to slaves on sugar plantations. I can get you a pamphlet on the subject, the next time I visit my friend, Miss Crawford. She is a very noted abolitionist.”

“Oh, there is no need. I daresay I would not have the time to read it.”

Elizabeth gave up being agreeable to the Duchess of Wellington. She confined herself to talking of old battles with the Duke of Wellington and then, when Marjorie had got over her offense enough to speak more, to talk generally of politics and society. The Duchess spoke a little then, though mostly to interrupt with something inane, or to fuss over her husband and ask if he was comfortable, if he was close enough to the fire, if he was hungry or thirsty, or if he required this or that unnecessary object. Elizabeth had never before been so glad society visits had to last only a quarter of an hour. She and Marjorie rose with perhaps unseemly haste.

“Allow me to show you out,” said His Grace. He himself draped the cloak of sables about Elizabeth’s shoulders, and bent to whisper in her ear, “I’m damned sorry for that. The Duchess is the silliest woman in England.”

“My mother could probably win in such a contest,” replied Elizabeth, slightly turning to smile at him.

“You must learn to ignore her, as I do. It is the only way of getting on.”

Marjorie had been watching them whisper to each other out of the corner of her eye and only after they were done, did she say, as she pulled on the cuffs of her gloves, “I regret to say that we will not be able to repay Your Grace’s visits quite so often as we would like, but really, with the bill we have so many claims upon our time!” She raised her eyes from her gloves and smiled beatifically. “But you are always welcome at Matlock House. Indeed, we do hope to see you at dinner again this evening.”

“You may count on it,” said Wellington, bowing. “And indeed, accept my apologies for the Duchess’s remarks. I seldom share any of her opinions, and on these matters, not at all.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” said Marjorie, sounding not at all mollified.

 

***

 

Elizabeth was busy making wine from the Countess of Lieven’s oranges the next time Wellington came to call. It was, surprisingly, in the afternoon, and, upon hearing the sound of bootheels in the hall, she rather expected Darcy or Colonel Pascal to be shown in, rather than the Duke of Wellington.

“Oh, Your Grace,” said she, in some confusion. She curtsied while trying to unpin her apron.

“No, don’t let me interrupt you,” said he, looking around the stillroom with mild interest. “I am only here a moment.”

“What brings Your Grace to Matlock House?” Elizabeth asked, pinning her apron back on.

“I brought Lady Wellington to more formally apologize to Lady Stornoway. I could not count on Lady Wellington doing so on her own initiative.”

Elizabeth offered him a stool, careful to leave the door open, as there was no one else about, and said, “I somewhat doubted she realized she was being offensive.”

“She did not,” said His Grace. “I was forced to give her a ringing scold on the subject. Really, I have tried all my married life to live with her in a friendly manner, and all she can do is fuss or offend my allies.”

“Has this always been the case?” asked Elizabeth, returning back to her work.

“More-or-less since the beginning.” He sat with arms folded, one booted foot on the bottom rung of the stool. “You never seem to me to be idle, my dear. What are you doing now?”

“Making orange wine,” said Elizabeth. “I was brought up to believe that the ladies of the household ought to create the spirits offered to other visiting ladies. My mother was always very particular about her table, and that was one of the precepts I haven't been able to shake.”

“How did you manage on campaign?”

“Oh, I brought bottles with me, on the luggage carts, but often resorted to tea alone— or do you mean, did I try to brew anything? I confess, on campaign, I had rather less elegant stillroom task of making poultices and possets for the wounded. It was always a treat for me to come to Matlock House during the winter, and occupy myself with more frivolous projects.” He seemed curious enough that she left off her work to hunt down an old bottle of orange wine, and pour a glass for His Grace.

He took a rather skeptical sip. He was not much of a drinker, and seldom enjoyed wine except at dinner. But he did her the courtesy of pronouncing it fine and finishing it off. Elizabeth smiled at him. “A magnificent compliment from you, Your Grace! Would you like a bottle for Her Grace?”

His Grace declined this.

“Does she dislike orange wine?”

“I really don't know. But I am not feeling inclined to be charitable towards her.”

“I think you would get on better if you were more civil to her.”

Wellington was surprised by this. “I may not be in a charitable mood, but I am very civil to her. I have never said a harsh word _to_ her in my life.”

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. “Your Grace will forgive the observation, but your manner is very abrupt. Even a neutral comment can sound like a criticism, when phrased brusquely, to a nervous, unhappy woman.”

“Ha!”

Something about her dislike for the Duchess of Wellington had been bothering her for several days. Elizabeth set down her knife and hugged her elbows. She turned the idea over in her mind and looked to Wellington with a troubled expression.

“She didn't insult you too, did she?”

“No, I accidentally offended her.”

“Good God, you?” Wellington asked, startled. “I can't imagine your offending anybody. Your manner is too sweet and arch for that.”

“Kinder than I deserve! My offense was stupid, but I apologized for it and therefore shan't bore you with it. But I was thoughtful just now because Her Grace reminds me of my mother.”

“Heavens, child,” cried Wellington, in mock offense, “I am not that much older than you.”

Elizabeth laughed despite herself. “ _You_ do not remind me of my father, sir. You remind me of no one but yourself! It is only that my parents were not a match either, and my mother— I don't think my mother allowed herself to acknowledge it. It came out in odd ways as a result. I make her sound like a layer cake someone piled books on until the icing seeped out, but— I don't know.” She turned her gaze to the pile of orange and lemon halves before her. “I think the Duchess is so aware of what she cannot bring herself to say, she gets rather... fretful at any proof that she is not your match. As when so competent a political hostess as Lady Stornoway—but I am running on.”

“No, no,” said Wellington, though he drummed his fingers of his right hand on his left sleeve. “You have begun your assault. You cannot now retreat.”

She kept her tone deliberately playful, and her attention focused on the oranges she was juicing into a pot as she said, “She fusses because she is worried. I believe that she lashes out as she does, so unthinkingly, because she does not really know how to solve the problem that consumes her, but is trying to do _something_ with the limited means at her disposal.” Elizabeth had been speaking a little more of her mother than the Duchess, and forced her thoughts back to the Wellingtons. “It cannot be easy for her, knowing you prefer every other hearthside in England but your own.”

“The truth is, Mrs. Fitz,” he said, “she has made it that way. My tastes are domestic. Nothing would make me so happy as to have a home where I could find comfort, and conversation. But she makes my house so dull everyone avoids visiting, and talking to her on any serious subject is like talking to a child. It drives me to seek abroad the comfort and happiness denied me at home.”

“Is that what you call it?” teased Elizabeth.

“That is what I call your society,” said Wellington, with a corresponding gleam of amusement.

“I think you have ventured farther abroad for more exciting society, sir, and it is on that point I shake my head at you, and tell you you only ruin your own comfort by doing so. Thank God Colonel Fitzwilliam was so devoted. If he paid any other woman half the attention you paid to Signoria Grassini in Paris—” this was an unkind comparison. She stopped herself and tossed him an orange. “But you must be civil, Duke, civil as this orange, and the Duchess will stop being something of that jealous complexion, and stop taking offense at everything said by any female friend or ally of yours.”

“Did people use to be orange with jealousy?”

“Apparently.”

“Curious.” Wellington watched her at work a moment and set aside the orange. “If you will boss me into it— fine. I will try. But you cannot know how aggravating it is to go home and have not a creature to speak to sensibly.”

“Marjorie has told me of it often enough,” said Elizabeth.

“Cheeky,” said Wellington, approvingly. He liked wit. “Well, I have had the same lecture from Mrs. Arbuthnot often enough over the years. If two of the wittiest people of my acquaintance give me the same advice I ought to act on it. I really cannot have the Duchess behaving this way. Not everybody she offends will be as gracious as Lady Stornoway, and I am for France soon enough. I tremble to think of what damage she will do when I am not here to check her. How do your parents get on?”

“They managed to produce five daughters in the span of eight years, so there was clearly _something_ they liked about each other. Now my father amuses himself at my mother’s expense, though she can never tell he is doing so. She is not as self-aware as the Duchess. But when most aggrieved,” she added, rather primly, “my father merely retreated to his bookroom rather than the backstage of an opera.”

He continued beating a military tattoo against his coat sleeve, but did not seem offended, and, indeed, seemed to be considering her words.

She was beginning to realize Wellington liked being playfully bossed about by pretty, witty women. How often had she seen Mrs. Arbuthnot arranging his social schedule for him, or the Countess Lieven dictating his partners at Almack’s, or, in Paris, Madame de Stael organizing his salon appearances? Elizabeth felt perhaps unduly pleased with herself to be in such illustrious company. She rather wished Caroline Bingley could see her now, or, better yet, the hated Lady Granville from the fashionable first battalion.

 

 

***

 

Unfortunately, her advice backfired, and rather quickly. As soon as the Duke and Duchess spent more time with each other, the more exasperated they became with each other. The Duchess was clearly frightened of her husband, and the Duke irritated by his wife. They had nothing in common but their children. In talking over their children, they soon realized that they had no opinions in common about how their children ought to be raised.

Elizabeth was rather discouraged to hear about the latest domestic squabble from Mrs. Arbuthnot only a few days later.

“I am sorry for her,” Mrs. Arbuthnot prefaced it, conscientiously. “She cannot help being what she is any more than he can, but never were two people so mismatched! I always thought matters would improve if Wellington treated her a little better, but I am beginning to think it would have been better if he just kept ignoring her and avoiding her company.”

“I hoped they might be getting on a little better,” said Elizabeth, dismayed. “Wellington seemed in good spirits at dinner, these past few days.”

“The argument was last night, at supper, just after they’d sent the boys to bed, according to Her Grace.”

“Is there even any substance to the quarrel, or is the Duchess just fussing at him again?” asked Marjorie, pouring tea. She had not forgiven the Duchess of Wellington for calling an interest in politics madness, and had not liked the scattered, incoherent apology she had been offered. 

“Oh, it is a substantive quarrel, though an odd subject,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot, seriously. “Her Grace was very upset this morning and wept all over me that His Grace had stormed out of the house because the dispute had not been settled, and she refused to give in. I do not well understand why she thought it unreasonable, but His Grace wished to dismiss the tutor and send the boys to Eton, and this mortally offended Her Grace.”

“Why was she weeping about that?” asked Marjorie. “Has she some strong familial attachment to Harrow or Rugby?”

“She wishes to keep them at home, to be educated as she was.”

“That would be doing them the greatest disservice,” said Marjorie, darkly. “Imagine the next Duke of Wellington having the same understanding as his mother!”

The first Wellington came to Matlock House at about noon, as Elizabeth was preparing to go out to visit the widow Fotheringay.

Colonel Fotheringay had died in the Battle of Toulouse, and his widow lived in a retired way, with her two young children, in a comfortable house by Hampstead Heath. Every Tuesday Mrs. Fotheringay had a tea party comprised of other officers’ widows, and a number of half-pay officers too wounded for any active service. Elizabeth had attended the week before, on the strong recommendation of her friend Mrs. Patricks, and though she had cried a great deal, she had felt better than she had in some months. It recalled, strongly, the sense of unspoken solidarity that had sustained her when she was measuring out bombazine with the other widows in Brussels; that feeling of being shored up in her grief when dying her clothes black with Mrs. Patricks.

Mr. Pattinson was bringing a hamper full of cold meats, jams, cake, cheeses, and pickled cucumbers (one of Mrs. Fotheringay’s favorites) down the front steps when Wellington dismounted his horse and came up them.

“Your Grace!” Elizabeth, well-bundled in her sables, gloved hands tucked into a matching muff, was herself halfway out the door. “I am so sorry, I am on the point of leaving— I had understood from Mrs. Arbuthnot you were out riding and would not visit today.”

“I was,” agreed Wellington, “but thought I'd call on you. I have had enough of home at present. Where are you headed?”

“To visit Colonel Fotheringay’s widow, on Hampstead Heath." 

“I shall join you, if you have no objection.”

“Not at all, Your Grace,” said Elizabeth, considerably surprised, “but she does not host a merry party. There are about ten or eleven of us who visit every Tuesday, to talk of the Spanish Campaign, grief, and various cures for the aches in missing limbs.”

“I should much rather talk of where Captain So-and-so’s leg is buried than spend an afternoon listening to the Duchess of Wellington twitter on with Mrs. Willoughby and their ilk about any subject that is least worthy of discussion. As I did yesterday.” He looked about the entryway and, spotting a footman trying not to look interested, said, “You there— bring me pen and paper.”

This was speedily accomplished, and Wellington dashed off what seemed to Elizabeth a rather dull impersonal note about the necessity of visiting some wounded veterans by Hampstead Heath. He did it rather irritably, as if he resented the necessity of it, and when Elizabeth ventured a fairly anodyne question about the Duchess’s health, received a curt reply that the Duchess was recovering from a fit of the vapors.

“I have never entirely known what that means,” said Elizabeth, as Wellington folded up the letter and handed it to the footman. “I realize it has something to do with miasmas, but....”

“It means,” said Wellington, offering her arm down the steps, “that the Duchess of Wellington is still convinced I can be moved by missishness.”

“Were you ever moved by missishness?” Elizabeth asked.

He snorted. “When I was a more foolish man.”

Mrs. Pattinson came out of the house then, with a second lap blanket for the carriage, and a couple of hot bricks. Mr. Pattinson’s contribution to their comfort was a stern injunction that she have a care for the weather since it seemed likely to snow. They drew back politely when Elizabeth wished them a good half-holiday, but did not seem inclined to depart.

“The Pattinsons are determined you will ride in the carriage with me,” whispered Elizabeth, in Wellington’s ear. She had to pause on the first step on the carriage, her hand still on his arm, to be able to do so. “I know you ride in all weather but I cannot like the idea of your riding in snow. And I do not think poor Copenhagen would like it much either.”

Wellington turned to look at where a shivering footman was holding his horse in place. “Poor fellow! I used him hard today.” He signaled to the footman. “Take my horse to the stable and make sure he’s well rubbed down and kept warm. I'll be back for him before dinner.” He alighted into the carriage and settled himself gallantly facing backwards. There was a brief crinkle of paper as he sat; he shifted and pulled out his preferred newspaper from underneath him.

“You have damned efficient servants,” said Wellington, cracking a smile.

“Damned officious too,” said Elizabeth dryly, settling her lap blanket about herself, “but I really cannot find it in me to protest. Mr. Pattinson was my husband’s batman all through the Spanish Campaign and at Waterloo, and Mrs. Pattinson was with her husband even before I married the colonel. I think they would volunteer to be shipped off to a regiment in the West Indies before allowing you to be even slightly uncomfortable. All settled, sir?”

Wellington rapped on the ceiling of the coach, and they set off. Elizabeth drew out the volume of poetry she had put in her sable muff, unsure if Wellington preferred silence, but after he glanced over the front page, he said, “Mrs. Aburthnot called on you, you said?”

“Yes, she did. Despite being on opposite sides of the political aisle, she and Marjorie are rather good friends. I quite like Harriet. One consolation of my being in London forever now, is furthering my acquaintance with her.” Elizabeth put her book away and then said, after a moment, “We needn’t discuss it if you dislike it, sir, but Mrs. Arbuthnot was... a little distressed by her call on the Duchess before she called upon us. I do fear I was partly to blame.”

He looked vaguely annoyed. “Ah. Well, you couldn't predict all the movements of enemy troops, when they obey no known system of thought. For two days we got on almost well. But as the Duchess does not care to acknowledge the existence of logic, there was no getting much further. Pass on to Mrs. Arbuthnot the news I obeyed you both to my poor best, but I must go back to avoiding the Duchess when I can, and ignoring her when I cannot.”

“I am very sorry,” said Elizabeth.

Wellington made a production of folding up the paper very precisely. “Come now, my dear, you’re not going to convince me you will miss Kitty’s company.”

“No. I must confess I am not the greatest of friends with your wife, nor am I really inclined to put in the effort to become so. I am sorry to say it, but there it is.”

He raised his eyebrows.  “Not as sorry as I am, Mrs. Fitz.”

“Whyever did you marry her, if that is how you feel?”

“Do you care to hear the whole tragedy?” asked Wellington, abruptly.

Elizabeth admitted she would.

Wellington tried to better rearrange his tall figure into the coach; Elizabeth scooted slightly to the side, so that he might have more room for his legs. “I was quite young when I first liked Kitty Pakenham. Ireland has not many beauties, but she was one of ‘em.”

Elizabeth hid a smile behind her gloved hand, but Wellington caught sight of it and his glance gleamed with amusement. “Just so, Mrs. Fitz. Being foolish and only just turned twenty-three, I became very convinced Kitty’s mark was a match for mine. I was very much in love. I asked her to marry me and she directed me to her father, who told me I lacked, fortune, title, and accomplishment, and denied my suit.”

“I daresay you have succeeded even his wildest hopes on that head,” said Elizabeth.

He favored her with the lip quirk that was his version of a smile. “Yes, but at the time I was an ensign who spent most of his time playing the violin instead of learning his trade. Lord Longford was quite right to tell me to go to Jericho and stop importuning his daughter. I burnt my violin in a fit of pique, ranted and raved about my love, and was shipped off to India. I remained there for some years, and thought no more about the honorable Miss Pakenham. When I returned— do you know Lady Olivia Sparrow?”

“No, sir.”

“You have dodged not just a bullet, but a canonball. The damned interfering baggage sent for me and told me that Miss Pakenham continued to like me, and had even refused other offers on my account. She advised me, in the strongest possible terms, to renew my offers or risk exposing myself and Miss Pakenham to ridicule.”

“How long were you away from England, sir? You have told me before, but I am afraid I have forgot.”

“Twelve years.”

“Twelve years! Good God. And you did not write, or see each other in all that time?”

“The first I heard from Kitty was when I renewed my offer. An evil hour.” He had been sitting with his arms crossed, and his legs stretched out before him; he tapped his gloved fingers on his overcoat sleeve in an impatient military tattoo. “You will probably scold me for saying so, but by God, she had grown ugly.”

“You are quite right,” said Elizabeth folding her arms in mock offense. “She could not help it.”

“No, no more than _you_ can help growing prettier every year,” said he, with his quirk of a grin.

“The work of my maid rather than myself, sir, but really— if you disliked her looks, did you at least still like her character?”

“No, for that had changed in the interval as well. She had been such a spirited, vivacious girl; now it is all gone to fretfulness. Let it suffice to say that I felt honor-bound, so I renewed my offer. God only knows why she accepted it, since she was quite indifferent to me. I suppose she thought she would not get a better.”

“Did you marry at once then?”

“No. More fool I! Some months elapsed between my writing to her to offer myself, and the marriage. My mind misgave me many times; we corresponded, and her letters—” He grimaced. “But I ended by going over to Ireland. I ought to have realized before then that we were not a match. Her letters generally offended me, her looks, manners, and opinions likewise; it ought not to have been such a surprise as it was when we bared our wrists before the altar and saw we were not a match. But it was too late to stop. We married and have regretted it ever since.” He lapsed into a miserable silence, tinged with self-directed irritation, but then turned to Elizabeth and said, “I know you are fond of laughing at the follies of others. Have you ever heard a tale to top mine?”

“Oh, plenty! But I really wonder at your marrying her when you disliked... really everything about her, and why you continue _to_ be married if your opinion of her has only worsened over the years.” An idea occurred to her; she faked a scowl and said, “Your Grace has been amusing himself at my expense! I am not in the least convinced you never thought of Miss Pakenham in India. I think you were quite desperately in love.”

“Do you, Mrs. Fitz?”

“Yes— but not with her. With an idea of her, which did not really exist. But you had held onto it for twelve years. You could not give it up, even when given so much proof to the contrary.”

He leaned back in his seat, favoring her with a glance more of admiration than exasperation. “I ought to hate that my character is so transparent to you, but you cannot think me a greater fool than I think myself.”

Elizabeth put her hand over his tapping fingers to still them. “Oh, sir. I think you were foolish, but it is rather endearing to discover you are secretly romantic.”

He managed to neatly lift Elizabeth’s hand to his lips and kiss it. “Kinder than I deserve by far.”

“I do not mean to pry about something so personal as your mark, but did you think her a true match?”

“Right again. Every time I looked at my soulmark, I thought of her. I was determined we were a match. I could admit no other possibility.” He released her hand, but seemed decidedly easier. He was back to his usual abruptness, when he added, “I don’t think I ever laid out the whole sorry mess to anyone before.”

“I hope it did you some good.”

“I feel quite _soulagé_ ,” replied he, unfolding himself a little, and deranging Elizabeth’s lap blanket in the process. “Suppose you bottle that up, like your orange wine, Mrs. Fitz— you shall make your fortune.”

Elizabeth laughed. “I thank you sir, and shall call upon you for an endorsement to put in all the papers.”

“Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s cure for spleen! A bestseller.” He fixed the fur throw he had accidentally pulled off of Elizabeth’s lap and said, with his usual sudden shifts in conversation, “The boys.”

“Sir?”

“We continue to be married because of the boys,” said Wellington. “Little Arthur is only just old enough for Eton. I wish I had been less of a fool before they were born, but I was not, and they do not deserve to be punished for my poor choices.”

Elizabeth thought of arguing that children brought up in unhappy homes with two parents were perhaps at more of a disadvantage as those brought up in a happy home by one, but as she had no children herself, and thought herself unlikely to have any, she thought she might give offense by pretending to knowledge she had not gained. She contented herself with, “Your Grace is correct in that I like to laugh at the follies of others, but I cannot laugh at yours. I often think soulmarks cause more trouble than otherwise.”

“Did yours, for you?”

“No, but it causes me grief now,” said Elizabeth, looking at the lump under her glove where her jet bracelet rested. “It is a hard thing, seeing it, and knowing... well! We must be philosophers where we meet with disappointments. I had three years of happiness. I was very lucky. And I am not a creature made for unhappiness; I must cling to that.”

Wellington reached over to press her hand. “That’s the spirit, my dear.”

“Thank you, sir.” She forced a smile. “Some days are worse than others, but today I am not too bad. I have the comfort of speaking about Colonel Fitzwilliam to a large number of people who will not grudge me for it.”

“I shouldn’t think anyone would tire of hearing of him. He was a most competent man, never overfond of glory. I relied on him a good deal in Spain, for more painstaking or diplomatic work. A good man for a siege.”

They talked of Colonel Fitzwilliam and the actions he had seen the rest of the way, and Elizabeth was very glad to hear how much her husband had been respected, by one such as the Duke of Wellington. She was almost annoyed to reach their destination.

“I am quite glad,” said he, unexpectedly, “to have someone to whom I can say anything.”

“Is that a statement on my eccentricity, sir?” asked Elizabeth, with a laugh.

He chucked her under the chin. “Learn to take a compliment, my dear. I shall be paying more of them to you by and by.”

Elizabeth blushed.

“That’s better,” said Wellington, amused.


	2. In which the ladies share their knowledge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to CynicinFishbowl for the phrase "rake of the first water."

Mrs. Fotheringay was extremely shocked to see Elizabeth handed out of the carriage by no less a person than the Duke of Wellington. She stood there, gaping a moment, until Elizabeth said brightly, “Saanvi, my dear! I was telling His Grace about your tea parties, and he was very eager to attend one.”

Mrs. Fotheringay dropped into a hasty curtsy.

“Sir, I am sure you recall Colonel Fotheringay’s widow, Saanvi? Saanvi, I forget— have you made the acquaintance of the Duke of Wellington?”

“I have had that pleasure,” said Mrs. Fotheringay, recovering. “Your Grace, you are most welcome. Please, will you come in?” They made way for the groom carrying in the basket, and then trooped into the sitting room, filled with the sort of company almost designed to lift His Grace’s spirits: veterans of the Peninsular War, or their widows, all of whom had coughed on the dust of infantry and cavalry regiments on the march, who had been woken in the hot Spanish night by the noise of the guns, who had dined for weeks on only ‘Tommies’ (pancakes made from the last of mouldy flour and brackish water) when supply could not be got, and who could not forget the piles of dead after a battle.

Though there were, of course, a large number of officers who were as much strangers to logic as the Duchess of Wellington, none of them were present in Mrs. Fotheringay’s parlor. Her guests tended to be from the gentry rather than the aristocracy, and the officers, after the initial outlay to become ensigns, had obtained promotion more through merit or the regiment’s necessity, than purchase. The widows, though all genteel, were more varied in background. But they were all the sorts whom Elizabeth had befriended abroad and was still happy to call her friends now: pragmatic problem-solvers, who had enjoyed following the drum, for all its challenges, who were as intelligent and keen as any of the officers around them.

They talked happily and competently of war; every man and woman was eager to hear the great Wellington’s take on the battle that had deprived them of something, whether it be limb or health or husband. Wellington by degrees became quite cheerful, and was so long in conversation that he and Elizabeth found themselves quite snowed in.

Lieutenant Jeffries, who had been the reluctant first to break up their party, returned not two minutes after he had set out, saying, frankly, “I really do not think I can walk home as planned; my crutches would slide on the snow and I would fall over at once.”

“I came in a carriage,” said Elizabeth. “Where are your lodgings, sir? I would be happy to drive you.”

“That will not do much good either,” said Mrs. Patricks, pulling back the curtain. “Look at how the wind is whipping the snow about!”

The members of the party who could easily rise all crowded about the window, abandoning tea and work, to exclaim about the weather. Someone posited that this was the coldest winter on record, some more gloomy member of the party predicted food shortages and famine, and Mrs. Fotheringay suggested an impromptu dinner party, at least until the wind had died down enough not to blind anyone’s horses with snow.

Elizabeth and a couple of the richer widows all began to protest this— they knew that Mrs. Fotheringay’s jointure had not been large, and Mrs. Fotheringay was so embarrassed by it, she would accept their baskets and hampers only if they were presented to her children, rather than her— but the wind began to whistle through the chimney in an alarming way, and all concluded that they were momentarily snowed in.

“At least allow us to help you,” said the eldest of the party, Mrs. Smith. “There are... five, ten— twelve of us here, not including the children. We shall put your servants through a great deal of trouble if we do not help.”

Mrs. Fotheringay was forced to accept this.

A number of the ladies rose, including Elizabeth.

“Oh no, Mrs. Fitzwilliam!” exclaimed Mrs. Fotheringay, laughing. “I know better than to allow you in a kitchen!”

The rest of the party burst into laughter, though Wellington raised an eyebrow and said, “I am surprised to hear you have ever even been in a kitchen, Mrs. Fitz.”

“Only to give orders to the cook, really— except one rather awful meal in Spain, on the road to Pamploma. Have you not heard this story? I am surprised; it was one of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s favorites. Do you recall his and Colonel Kirke’s capture of the —th Dragoons, and —th Legere, after the Battle of Vittoria?”

“I do. Remarkable work.”

Elizabeth merrily launched into the story of how she, Mrs. Kirke, and two captains’ wives had been surprised by the French forces, who had marched through a supposedly safe village, instead of marching along the main road, as all the English officers had expected. Elizabeth had been recognized as a Colonel’s wife, and been forced into a series of deliberate humiliations. She had been flustered, and felt that the entire time that she was engaging in a desperate improvisation, with only good manners and a bottle of laudanum to defend her. But in forcing a colonel’s wife to wait upon them at dinner, and to cook their dinner for them, the French had made a great tactical error. Elizabeth had served up to them a fine laudanum soup as a first course, and the French officers had not been awake enough to enjoy the rest of the meal— or, indeed, to stop the British ladies from escaping, or the British regiments from routing them thoroughly.

Wellington cast upon her a look of great admiration. “I recall now Colonel Fitzwilliam making a joke about clever housewifery winning the day for him.”

“It was a joint effort on all our parts! Mrs. Kearney found the laudanum and came up with the plan, MacDougal was the cook, Mrs. Kirke masterminded our escape— really, the only thing I did was mangle Mozart and badly ladle out soup.”

“Mangle Mozart?”

“Ah, I forgot I left _that_ out of the telling in order to keep _some_ credit before all my friends.”

Mrs. Patricks laughed. “Oh, but that is my favorite part! His Grace probably knows La Ninon more intimately than you, Mrs. Fitzwilliam, I am sure.”

“The opera singer, Ninon?” asked Wellington.

“Yes, the very one! She was traveling with the colonel of dragoons— I shall not say in what capacity— and lacked an orchestra. I was conscripted. It was not my best performance.”

“It seems to have been good enough to fool ‘em,” said Wellington. “What did you play?”

There was a spinet in one corner of the sitting room; after some pressing from the other ladies, Elizabeth went to it, and tried to play from memory her horrible mangling of ‘Voi che sapete.’ “And pray imagine over this,” she said, deliberately getting a chord progression wrong and making a hasty, obvious correction, “one of the best opera singers on the Continent! That is— I think Madame Catalini probably the most gifted singer I have had the pleasure of hearing, but I really found La Ninon a superior artist to La Grassini.”

“Signora Grassini’s charms were not entirely artistic,” said Wellington, dryly, and only loud enough for the men nearest him to smirk, and for Elizabeth to shoot him a playfully censorious look. Despite herself, she was entertained by it, and, like most respectable ladies of the _ton_ , had a suppressed, but somewhat prurient curiosity about the disreputable ladies of the _demi-monde._

Dinner was announced— a haphazard affair closer to a supper than a proper dinner, since the main meat was the cold ham Elizabeth had brought over, Mrs. Fotheringay’s larders could not supply more than one course and a pudding, and there was not enough space for everyone to fit very comfortably around the table. It was only after it was found that Mrs. Fotheringay had an excellent wine cellar, and after each of the gentlemen took it upon themselves to give a toast, that everyone became easy once again. Perhaps a little too easy— the conversation when the ladies left the gentlemen to the port was rather more uninhibited than usual.

“You know, no one tells you just how much you will miss marital relations when your husband is gone,” said the widow Mayhew, passing around a bottle of Elizabeth’s orange wine. A couple of ladies tried to shut down this subject but too many of the other women were laughing or agreeing to do so. “It is true! You cannot _really_ supply the want yourself.”

“You can make an attempt at it,” said Mrs. Smith, wickedly.

“The only thing anyone ever formally told me on the subject was that if I found it unpleasant, just to lie still and wait for it to be over,” said another.

The conversation grew only more ribald. Elizabeth tried her best to avoid taking part in it, except to blush and to try not to laugh. However, she was secretly relieved to hear the other ladies complain of their own frustrations. Elizabeth had very much enjoyed her marital duties, and after an initial period of confusion, had worked out very quickly what she liked, what she wanted, and how to get it. The sudden absence of something she had so enjoyed had been rather harder to manage than she had thought, and her feeling that it was ignoble, or improper to express this, had only compounded her frustration. 

Of course, the ladies all agreed, having been introduced to something so pleasant, one would wish for it again. A couple of delicate euphemisms were floated into the conversation about lovers, and the conversation devolved into what the women particularly preferred in a man. There were not many agreements on that head, except for one: they all very much admired the Duke of Wellington.

“No!” exclaimed Elizabeth, putting her hands to her flushed cheeks. “No, no, you _must_ stop, you are all outrageously improper and I shan’t visit you again!” She was showered with recriminations for so untenable a threat. Elizabeth changed tactics: “I have to share a carriage with Lord Wellington all the way back to Matlock House! That is by St. James’s Park, that is too long a distance to spend blushing!”

Several women expressed the wish to exchange places with her, and waxed rhapsodic on His Grace’s fine, tall person, broad shoulders, light eyes, etc. There was some debate over his nose, which had earned him most of his nicknames during the Spanish campaign, but the room generally concluded that Elizabeth was in an enviable position.

The re-entrance of the men caused the ladies to all fall into whoops of laughter.

Wellington raised his eyebrows at Elizabeth.

“Now, now ladies,” said Elizabeth, trying to imitate the Countess Lieven’s unbending good posture, despite her deep blush, “the men are arrived. We must not offend their delicate sensibilities!”

Mrs. Fotheringay was laughing too hard to second this immediately but agreed that some efforts ought to be made to shield the tender ears of the officers. No sensible conversation could be had after this, and, after Lieutenant Jeffries was deputized to check the wind again, they all agreed to brave the weather while there was still a little sunlight. The snow still fell, but fell lightly, and the wind was not quite so bad.

Elizabeth offered her carriage again and they were quite a merry party heading out.

“The ladies seemed to be enjoying themselves,” said Wellington, as their last passenger, the widow Mayhew climbed down the coach steps and up into the little house she shared with her mother-in-law.

Elizabeth leaned out the door to give a final stern injunction to that lady to go to bed and behave herself, and then shut the door. “I really think,” said she, turning to Wellington with a smile, “that the wives of officers are much worse than their husbands when they are left apart. I doubt anything quite so ribald was said over the port.”

“As we discussed everyone’s amputations,” said Wellington, dryly, “I daresay not. I would happily have traded you.”

Elizabeth blushed heartily. “I assure you, you would have blushed to hear the conversation as much as I did!”

“What on earth did you talk about?”

Elizabeth handed him his newspaper and said, primly, “Now, now, sir! You always read your newspaper after the port. There is no need to deviate from the proper order of things quite so much as this.”

Wellington teased her a little, but he was a creature of habit, and surprisingly domestic-minded; he was content to take the paper and began to read. Elizabeth was holding up her own book (Byron’s latest, _The Siege of Corinth_ ) to the window, to catch the last of the light from the sunset, when the coachman swore, and coach skidded sideways with an unpleasant jolt. The coach stilled on a tilt, with oaths from the servants and annoyed whinnies from the horses. 

Wellington put out a hand to catch Elizabeth, and then, setting her to rights, opened the carriage door to demand what the devil had happened.

The answer came that the roads were beginning to ice over, the wheels had slid, and they were now teetering half off the road, with one of the back coachwheels in a ditch.

“Not broken, I hope?” asked Wellington.

“No, Your Grace,” said the groom, pulling down his muffler. “Dawkins—” this being the coachman “—says it’s just stuck.”

Wellington climbed out, saying, “Wait here, Mrs. Fitz, let me see what’s to be done.”

Elizabeth did her best to maintain equilibrium in a coach half-leaning over the edge of a ditch, but, when the coach began to sway, gave it up for a bad job, opened the door and sprang lightly out onto the road. It was no longer quite as windy, but it was bitterly cold, and the white-dusted roads and bare trees had a crystalline edge to them. Elizabeth half-expected to find out she had wandered into a ballad where a fairy queen was going to ask her riddles, or tell her that Colonel Fitzwilliam wasn’t really dead, he’d just been captured by the Seelie Court. But Elizabeth’s problems were more mundane than that. She had been caught in bad weather, and now her coach was stuck.

She stifled a sigh. In some ways, it would really have been easier to defeat the Fairy Queen and her cohort. Elizabeth felt she was clever and genre-savvy enough for that. She knew very little about spur-of-the-moment coach maintenance and repair. Womens’ educations left out so many necessary things. So much was left for one to pick up as one went along, more experienced ladies passing on bits of knowledge to their fellows, and so on, _quasi cursores._

Though she skidded a bit on the road, not having thought to wear pattens over her boots, she managed to make it over to where the Duke of Wellington, the groom, and the coachman were examining the coach wheel. (The postillion was attending to the two horses stamping the icy ground and looking increasingly nervous about the great heavy thing to which they were attached.)

“I was tilting about so much I thought I myself on a ship, not in a carriage,” Elizabeth said, by way of explanation for her presence. “I am a very poor sailor. Thank God I am the widow of an infantryman, not a seaman.”

Wellington made a noise that indicated he had heard her. Dawkins the coachman was more helpful. The back wheel was stuck in a drainage ditch. The coach was too heavy to lift (though their attempts had not gone unnoticed, by Elizabeth, or her stomach), and the ground was too hard to move, in order to make something of a slope to get the wheel back on the road. The most frustrating part of the whole affair was how very little the coachwheel had slid off the road— just enough to make it impossible to get back onto the road by force of strength alone.

“Where’s my corps of engineers when I really need them, eh?” joked Wellington.

“Oh half-pay wandering about England,” replied Elizabeth. “It is too bad none of them are wandering the heath.”

“Any men foolish enough to be wandering the heath in this weather tend to be poets, my dear, not engineers.”

This sparked an idea; Elizabeth went back to the coach and, produced bricks that had once been hot, and her leather-bound _Siege of Corinth_. “We swept up a couple of engineers after the attack on the battalion in ‘12,” said Elizabeth, trying to juggling her building materials without dropping her muff. “During the retreat from Burgos. I remember them having to use the bricks that... Lord, I am afraid to display my ignorance. But we had a company of artillery with us and we did not like to abandon their canons with the French so close, but the roads were all mud. Some of the artillery officers had bricks they carried to keep the canon from moving back too far after firing. And they used those to lay out a path. It was tedious work, unfortunately soon abandoned, but—”

“Clever,” said Wellington, approvingly. He relieved Elizabeth of bricks and books; he and the servants soon had a narrow little incline established, and spent some time shouting at each other to position the wheel correctly. When the coach began to teeter towards the road again, it became clear the coach must be pushed; Elizabeth had been in this situation many times at home, where the Hertfordshire mud had so defeated their coachmen the Bennet girls had had to get out and push, and even more frequently in Spain, where the lack of roads, and then the effect of tens of thousands of men marching had made it impossible for the wagons to continue on. She tossed her muff into the coach, hopped down lightly from the road, and came around to put her shoulder against the coach too.

“The devil are you doing?” asked Wellington, without much heat.

“Helping.” Though she had begun to regret doing so; the snow was piled high into the ditch and sliding into the tops of her boots, and encrusting the hems of her skirts.

“Go back on the road, Mrs. Fitzwilliam,” said Wellington. “You'll hurt yourself.”

“Nonsense, Your Grace! I know how to fling myself out of the way if need be. I pushed more wagons in Spain than I would like to admit.”

“Mrs. Fitzwilliam, the Earl would not like hearing you was doing this,” grunted the coachman, though he strained against the side of the coach. “A lady oughtn’t to have to push a coach, it ain't right to ask ‘em.”

“Necessity trumps propriety,” Elizabeth replied. She could see the wheel slowly rolling from brick to brick— now to the book that would put the wheel back on the road—

The horses gave a nervous whinny and pulled with sudden force, moving the coach not only into the road, but suddenly down it towards London.

Elizabeth tried to catch her balance but ended up falling into a snowbank. “Oof!”

“That’s what you get, you foolish creature, for ignoring every single order I give you,” said Wellington, offering her a hand up.

“Yes, yes, I am justly repaid for mine own impertinence.” She took it and he easily pulled her upright. The ground was slippery, and the soles of her boots not in the least equal to it; she had to grasp Wellington’s hand with both of hers to keep from slipping again. Wellington held steady but threatened to carry her, an act that Elizabeth treated with enough seriousness to manage a running scramble up the bank and back up to the road. The coachman and groom were busy chasing down the coach, waving their arms and swearing with admirable creativity.

“You weren’t injured, were you, my dear?” asked Wellington.

“Not in the least!”

“Then I have no scruples in telling you that was a damn fool thing to have done. You very well _could_ have been injured, and then what would I have said to Lord Matlock? ‘I know your son was killed obeying my orders, and now I have maimed his widow while escorting her on a social call’?”

“You cannot take responsibility for any injury I could have inflicted upon myself, sir, any more than you can for Colonel Fitzwilliam’s death. We both acted as we deemed necessary in a situation, well knowing the potential costs to ourselves, but deciding it was better to act— not that my helping to get a coach out of a ditch was in any way comparable to defending Hougoumont.”

“Were you this cheeky to your husband, madam?”

“Considerably more so. Ah, Dawkins! No, no, it’s fine, we shall come to you!”

She was feeling rather braced by the adventure, and rather smug her bit of engineering had worked; she bent to pick up her book and slid on the road.

“Take my arm at least,” said Wellington, sounding both exasperated and fond.

Elizabeth flicked the brim of her bonnet, in an impertinent salute that sent a fine dusting of snow back into the air. “Sir, yes, sir!”

She was really glad of his arm after a moment; the cheering effect of wine and triumph was beginning to fade, the discomfort of having been covered in snow— snow that was now melting into slush from her body heat— was beginning to take precedence. Elizabeth tried to discreetly shake some of the slush out of her petticoats and dropped her book in the process.

“What trash is this?” asked Wellington, picking the book up for her. “Poetry?”

“You hate poetry?” asked Elizabeth, taking it back and trying to shake off the new layer of snow. “Oh sir, you cannot despise a whole genre like that!”

“I certainly can!” he replied, handing her into the coach, before climbing in himself. “I hate the whole race of poets. I have the worst  opinion of them. There is no believing a word they say— your professional poets, I mean— there never existed a more worthless set than Byron and his friends. This—” pointing to the muddy book Elizabeth had abandoned on the floor, as she tried to bury herself in the lap blankets “—is probably the first time he’s ever been of use in his life.”  

“Do you include Lady Caroline Lamb amongst his friends?” Elizabeth teased him, though only slightly chattering teeth. “Or perhaps Lady Frances Weber?”

The Duke frowned at her; just after Waterloo, both these ladies had pursued Lord Wellington and Lord Byron with equal enthusiasm, and Elizabeth rather thought Wellington’s pride had been injured not to think himself the only object of these ladies’ affections.

But instead of commenting on this, he told the driver to walk on, and told her, “I think you are soaked through.”

“Not entirely to the bone,” she began, but Wellington waved away these protestations.

“Come now, Mrs. Fitz,” he said, a little brusquely. “The hot bricks are in a ditch, the blankets aren't enough, and I know you hate being cold. No use shivering yourself to death when we can make a bivouac with my cloak.”

He sat beside her, his leg pressing against hers, and began rearranging both of the lap blankets. Elizabeth blushed and mentally cursed Mrs. Fotheringay’s guests. All that talk about marital relations and how they envied her intimacy with Wellington had flustered her. Wellington looked amused, but parted the folds of her cloak to slide an arm around her waist, and pull her towards him. She flung out her right arm automatically to the coach door on her left, to keep herself from tipping forward.

“Not quite, my dear,” said he, keeping an arm about her waist as he settled the folds of his cloak over both their shoulders. Elizabeth hated to admit this was a great deal warmer, and hated too that she involuntarily pressed into the pocket of warmth Wellington had created. It was rather grudgingly that she slid her right arm under the layers of cloak and lap blanket, and with very ill grace she obeyed Wellington’s admonition not to be missish but to hold onto his waist.

“You'll tip over if you don't,” he said, linking his own arms about Elizabeth easily enough. “There we are.  Feeling better Mrs. Fitz?”

She continued to blush and avoid eye contact. The thought ‘I am embracing the Duke of Wellington’ kept running through her head, paralyzing her with its absurdity.

“On second thought,” said Wellington, and, lifting her easily, settled her on his lap.

“Sir!” Elizabeth nearly squeaked—there was not another word for the high pitched, inelegant noise she emitted—but she clutched his left shoulder with her left hand and kept her right about his waist.

“You blush very easily,” said Wellington, clearly enjoying himself.

“Yes, and especially when suddenly forced to sit on the laps of gentleman,” said Elizabeth, frostily. “This is entirely improper.”

“You have stopped shivering,” observed Wellington.

“You have stoked a fine enough glow of indignation to drive out any lingering chill,” said Elizabeth, though, it had to be admitted, she made no effort to detangle herself. She was warmer and she was, however much she hated to admit it, enjoying being once more locked into an embrace by a redcoat.

Wellington seemed to realize her protestations could be easily overcome, and continued on in his usual imperturbable fashion. “And here you just said necessity trumps propriety. Blatant hypocrisy, Mrs. Fitz!”

“You have a strange definition of necessity, sir. And, anyhow, I shall get your trousers damp. My petticoats are full of slush.”

“Not at all; you are sitting on one of the lap blankets.”

Elizabeth grumbled but she was so comfortable this did not last long. She sulkily curled up on his lap and leaned her cheek against his shoulder; feeling a little off-kilter not to feel the familiar, comforting scratch of gold braid.

“Good girl,” said Wellington, amused. “Know when you have been outmaneuvered.”

“I surrender,” said Elizabeth, with ill grace. “ _Je vous donne mon éppée, Monsieur le duc de Villainton."_

Wellington chuckled. “What a hash they make of it. I forget how they mangled Fitzwilliam.”

“Fêtesvillelm! Rather an uncomfortable mouthful.”

“Ha!”

She glanced up at him after a moment and said, grudgingly, “Oh alright, fine, I am much more comfortable this way.”

“Beautiful eyes, yours,” said Wellington, abruptly, almost musingly.

For a moment, Elizabeth thought he might lean down and kiss her. She was flustered by the idea, and more flustered still by the idea that she wouldn't mind it. Elizabeth shifted uncomfortably, conjured a vision of the Duchess of Wellington, looking miserable and frumpy at a dinner party in Paris they had both attended, and laughed off the compliment. “I have so often been often told they are my best feature, I really wonder what people _mean_ when they say so.”

“If that won't do for a compliment, what can I praise?”

“My engineering skills?”

Wellington looked both exasperated and fond.

“You haven't heard the axiom that you must tell a beautiful woman she is clever, and a clever woman she is beautiful?”

“And when she is both?”

Elizabeth liked this compliment a little more than she felt she ought, particularly when seated so intimately with the person giving it. “Then you should speak sensibly to her. Did you ever decide what to do with your telescope from Waterloo? I remember your writing to me about it being a much desired thing.”

They talked about Waterloo the rest of the way, until they drew within sight of what other few carriages were braving the elements. Elizabeth slid off of his lap, deciding she’d had more to drink at Mrs. Fotheringay’s than was advisable, and cheerfully blaming the lapse in propriety on that alone. Wellington’s gallantry thereafter was more conventional: he offered her a hand out of the carriage, and his arm going up the steps to the house. Mentally condemning her unorthodox seat to the same mental cupboard where she shoved all of the actions of which she was most embarrassed, Elizabeth was able to enter the house with equanimity— albeit one that was a little shaken when the butler looked actually shocked to see her and exclaimed, “Mrs. Fitzwilliam! His Lordship will be very glad!”

“You may assure His Lordship I have returned his daughter-in-law to him in very tolerable order,” said Wellington, taking off his hat and dropping his gloves into them, before passing the whole to Stebbins.

“Lizzy, my goodness!” Marjorie exclaimed, rushing into the hall from the drawing room. “Our dear papa-in-law was convinced you'd died in a snow bank or been set upon by highwaymen. Cousin Darcy was on the point of going out himself, if we would not send out a footman.”

“To what dangers roam on Hampstead Heath?” Elizabeth asked, passing her bonnet to a waiting maid. “I suppose I could have been attacked by a poet and forced to listen to a sonnet, but really! We just didn't wish to expose the horses— or the coachmen— to the wind. We came back as soon as it died down.”

“You are both alright?”

Wellington said, “Mrs. Fitzwilliam fell into a snow bank, but, in my defense, she did so while disobeying direct orders.”

“What, I cannot be honorably discharged for injuries in the line of duty?” Elizabeth asked, as the parlormaid relieved her of her damp sables. “By the by— Betsy, is it?— will you have that sent to the wash house directly? It's quite soaked through.”

“Nothing honorable, dear girl, in insisting on helping to move a coach when you are told not to.”

“Fie, Your Grace!” Elizabeth scolded him, holding her hands out so Betsey could unbutton her gloves. “You wouldn't have gotten the wheel out without me.”

Wellington said, “Yes, your plunging head-first into a snowdrift was certainly a help.”

“Perhaps it was intentional! Snow is very good for the complexion, or so I am told.”

“Your complexion needs no help. You have the prettiest blushes of any woman of my acquaintance.”

“I am sure you shall see them anon if you keep complimenting me so outrageously.”

“Ha! An inducement to continue rather than stop.”

“Whatever the case, I am glad you are both back safely,” said Marjorie, who had been watching this back and forth with politely concealed interest. “You both must be very cold— I expect you will wish to get out of your wet things, Mrs. Fitzwilliam. Your Grace, will you come into the drawing room? I was just pouring out the coffee and tea.”

Elizabeth obediently went upstairs to change. Once attired in dry shoes and stockings, a black cashmere gown, and a long draping shawl with silver medallions on the ends, she went back down to the drawing room.  Wellington had came in for coffee, perhaps hoping to delay the hour when he must return home, and, after getting his cup, had proceeded to usual wingback chair by the fire. It was mostly a family party that evening; the wind and snow had limited attendance, and what people assembled in the drawing room were family friends or close neighbors. Darcy was there, of course, and came up to Elizabeth as soon as she finished explaining to her anxious father-in-law that all was well, the Duke of Wellington had taken excellent care of her, her friends at Hampstead Heath had fed her, and the servants who had attended her ought to be given a tip for how well they reacted to the coach sliding off the road.

“Are you well?” Darcy asked, scarcely less anxious than the Earl.

“Oh perfectly well,” said Elizabeth, moving to where Honoria was pouring coffee. “A little cold, but nothing to signify.”

Honoria said, smiling, “I think Papa entirely forgot you spent three years following my brother about Spain! I told him it was probably the wind that kept you.”

“Indeed it was! We delayed our return, then we had to drop off a couple of friends without horses or limbs enough to brave the weather, then one of the coach wheels got stuck in a ditch and now here we are!”

“How dull,” said Honoria, handing her a cup of coffee. “I was hoping you had been set upon by robbers and fought them all off with nothing more than your wits and a parasol.”

“It is not sunny enough to carry about a parasol, so you are doomed to disappointment,” said Elizabeth, laughing. Darcy still looked grave. “You needn't look so worried, Darcy. Wellington was with me the whole time.”

This did not appear to make Darcy feel any better.

“Ridiculous man,” said Elizabeth, taking her coffee back to the fire. “As if I could face any problem on the road with _the Duke of Wellington_ as my escort and be overcome.”

“Thank you my dear,” said Wellington, much amused. “Come warm up by the fire. A rosy cheek suits you, but I don't think a red nose would have quite the same effect.”

“You are the soul of gallantry, Your Grace.”

Elizabeth gratefully stood with her back to the fire and they talked nonsense for half-an-hour. Darcy was their usual chaperone, listening to their conversation rather than taking part in it himself, but he was less inclined to grab at the conversational lures Elizabeth usually tossed at him, in the hopes of making him talk.

She ended up rather ignoring Darcy and got into a playful quarrel with Wellington about Madame de Stael’s novel _Delphine_.

“When Madame de Stael can be kept from discussing politics, she is the most agreeable woman I know, very _pétillante d’esprit_ , quite brilliant, but she insists on getting into arguments where she quite loses her head and becomes unreasonable.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Keep Madame de Stael from discussing politics! Sir, you had better keep rain from falling in England! Did we attend the same salon in Paris?”

“I hope so, for I recall seeing you there. But she cannot keep from going off her head about politics in her novels, too. Napoleon exiled her for _Delphine_ , you know.”

“Yes, as she mentions very often— about as much as she protests that _Delphine_ was supposed to be apolitical! I never understood how she could continue to protest it was _apolitical_ in good conscience.”

“ _I_ never understood why Delphine goes and kills herself for love at the end,” said Wellington. “We read often in novels of desperate cases of this description, but I cannot say that I have ever yet known a young lady dying of love. They contrive in some manner to live tolerably well, and some have been known to recover so far as to be inclined to take another lover.”

Darcy radiated disapproval. Elizabeth ignored him.

“Perhaps you think it odd merely because the author is Swiss, sir, and the novel itself is in French. They all believe soulmarks are but the name of a person who will impact your life some way, so perhaps it only seems odd to us a woman would kill herself over a lover not her soulmate.”

“ _That_ does not shock me. I have known any number of widows who, after their soulmate has gone, take on lovers with entirely different names than the ones on their wrists. They seem to find it about as freeing as the French do.”

“What, all of them?”

“One or two of them even declared they might go into a decline over some fellow or other, but I have yet to attend a funeral for any of them.”

“I think her suicide is meant to be a statement on how Napoleon killed Enlightenment thought,” said Elizabeth, feeling the conversation was becoming a little too personal. They talked more indifferently of Napoleon until a gentleman all in black appeared at the door to the drawing room. Marjorie excused herself from her guests and went over, but before she could reach the door, the newcomer was already striding across the room, towards the fire.

He bowed to Wellington and produced a note from the recesses of his greatcoat. “Your Grace.”

Elizabeth went hunting for her neglected workbasket, wondering if the servants had brought it into the drawing room as they usually did, but was startled from her search by Wellington’s muffled oath.

“Your Grace?” asked Elizabeth, considerably startled.

“Damned nonsense,” said Wellington, looking extremely annoyed. “I take my leave of you Mrs. Fitzwilliam—” rising to kiss her hand “—and thank you for a much pleasanter afternoon than I was expecting.” He nodded to Darcy, and, calling out his farewells to the Earl of Matlock and the Stornoways, strode briskly out of the room, the gentleman in black at his heels.

Darcy's bad mood continued. 

Elizabeth cast her mind over their conversation, and the day, and tried to determine what ate at his good spirits like a worm in th’bud, and decided it was probably her late arrival. She fetched two cups of tea, hers with lemon and sugar, his with milk, and passed him the cup with a contrite, “I really would have sent word if I had not thought it far too windy to send back the groom.”

“I am glad you are come back safely,” said Darcy, shortly.

“You are not behaving as if you are.”

“The Duke of Wellington,” said Darcy, putting the tea aside, in favor of the fireplace poker, “is a rogue. He ought not to have been talking to you of French novels like this.”

“I like French novels, so it really is no surprise he should,” said Elizabeth, but relented, “Oh no Darcy, I know, he oughtn’t to have been talking of lovers to me, it was most improper, but you must recall that we first knew each other in the army in Spain, and only began to see each other with some regularity in Paris, with the Army of Occupation. Our conversations are shaped more by those locales than London drawing rooms. No one would have commented on our talk of _Delphine_ in either of those places.”

“You ought to keep less in company with him in London drawing rooms,” Darcy said shortly, “if he cannot be bothered to adhere to English standards of propriety.”

“Darcy, you are being ridiculous.”

“I do not think so,” said Darcy, jabbing at the logs. “I have had some experience with rakes, and Wellington is a rake of the first water.”

Lord Stornoway had come over, as the party about the tea things was breaking up, and laughed. “You will never convince any woman with _that_ avenue of attack, Cousin Darcy!”

“What can you mean?” Elizabeth asked.

“Women _like_ rakes,” said Stornoway, taking Wellington’s chair. “I swear, half the talk when I when I was first a young man in society, on the lookout for the wife, was how the ladies always preferred a rogue.”

“Come now, Stornoway,” said Elizabeth, chidingly, “you and Marjorie have been married twelve years! Your information is out of date.”

“Did Darcy manage to blacken your opinion of the Duke of Wellington, by calling him a rake?”

“No,” said Elizabeth, “but that is because I know how high a stickler Cousin Darcy is.” She kept her tone light and teasing as she added, “My goodness, Darcy thought I wasn't good enough for Richard, when we were first engaged! I am flattered he has come round enough to think the Duke of Wellington is now not good enough to keep me company, but really—”

Darcy looked harassed. “You still take deliberate pleasure in misunderstanding me.”

“What are you talking of, to make Mr. Darcy look so irritated?” asked Mary Crawford, coming to join them. She liked irritating Darcy.

“Why women like rogues,” said Stornoway.

“It isn't so much that women like rogues in and of themselves,” said Miss Crawford, consideringly. “I think it has more to do with desire. Women are not encouraged to desire anything, or to admit it when they do. Your standard rogue can give a woman what she secretly, perhaps shamefully desires, while maintaining the ever-important fiction that she gives in only under duress, not because she wishes for it. In choosing a rake, a woman can choose to please herself. It is a very rare opportunity; you must forgive our sex for grabbing at the choice when we can.”

“Mary, that is not sound,” protested Elizabeth. “Not every woman does like a rake, and some who think they do end up being considerably wronged by their partners.”

“That is true,” agreed Mary, pulling up another chair to sit by them. “I daresay more rogues than not find female desire as worthy of punishment as the general class of men. And the punishments of society always fall more severely on the woman, unless she is clever.”

“And yet despite the threat, women go for ‘em!” Stornoway shook his head. “There’s no understanding women!”

“Not if you believe we are one large group that thinks and moves together like a school of minnows,” said Elizabeth. “We would be easier to understand if you thought of us as you thought of the men of your acquaintance: as individuals, formed by very different experiences. I suppose you might say we had some fears and interests in common— say we are then like graduates of Harrow instead of Eton.”

Mary smiled. “And what poor education is given to us graduates of Womanhood! We are taught mostly to fight our fellows. Perhaps that is why so many women love a rogue— they find a man who well knows their sex, and he assures her that she is special, that she is _superior_ to all the other women he has known.”

Darcy was looking extremely disgruntled by now. Elizabeth suddenly recalled the existence of George Wickham.

“Darcy, I assure you,” said Elizabeth, softening her tone, “ _I_ do not like a rake—” cutting herself off from adding the silly, wine-induced clause, ‘I like a redcoat,’ and saying instead, “—and really, I wonder at your opinion of Wellington, if you think he would pose any danger to the widow of one of his most valued officers.”

Stornoway looked a little sad at that. “Richard was nothing like a rake. He was an officer and a gentleman.”

“He was,” agreed Elizabeth, feeling a bit maudlin herself. “A most gentleman-like man, everyone always told me so.”

She and Stornoway had not talked much about Colonel Fitzwilliam; Stornoway found it difficult to speak (and perhaps to think) deeply about any subject, and on one so complicated, so profound, he more often than not was silent and confused, trying out this cliche or that, to bridge the gap between his feelings, and his ability to express them. Stornoway struggled with himself and managed to come up with something halfway original: “I suppose— I suppose Wellington talks a great deal to you of Richard?”

“Oh yes! He is very kind in that regard. We spent most of the carriage ride to Hampstead Heath talking of Richard.” Elizabeth reported all she remembered, feeling cheerful at this praise or that. Mary Crawford had been friends with Colonel Fitzwilliam long enough to be interested in hearing the Duke of Wellington’s opinion of him, and Stornoway was very eager to hear praise of his brother. Darcy grew slightly less censorious and, when he took his leave of her managed a gruff apology.

“I know,” he said, haltingly, as he bowed over her hand, “that there are few among our family circle who can talk to you of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s career, or the life you have known on the Continent.”

Elizabeth squeezed his hand. “Thank you Darcy. I understand your concerns, but despite briefly sharing the same profession, Wellington and Wickham have nothing in common.”

Though Elizabeth considered retiring to bed then, Mary was in the mood for a good gossip, and pulled her back to the divan.  

“Why was Darcy telling you Wellington was a rake?” asked Mary. “I know none of the Wellesleys are really models of propriety— really, are any of them happily married?— but surely everyone knows that by now. Marjorie my dear, do you know?”

Marjorie, shooing her husband over to entertain the Earl, sank into the wingback chair with a graceful rustle of dove-shot silk. “I believe one out of the five married well. The Wellingtons... well! Who doesn’t know the misery the Wellingtons inflict on each other? The eldest, the Count of Mornington— he lives with a French opera singer. I heard a rumor Mornington had married her, since their marks were a match, but really, no one believes they are a true match, and no one receives her or her children. Then Wellington’s younger brother Gerald, the clergyman... I really cannot recall if his wife has left him or not. She seems to change her mind about it every week. Though, poor woman, I shouldn't be too hard on her; she hasn't many options. The youngest brother, Henry, had that awful divorce back in ‘10. You recall his wife, Lady Charlotte, ran off with Lord Paget?”

“I believe Lord Paget is now Lord Uxbridge,” said Mary.

This put into quite a different context the famous exchange Elizabeth had heard bandied about, when Uxbridge was injured at Waterloo (“By God, sir,” Uxbridge was said to have exclaimed, “I’ve lost my leg!” to which Wellington was said to very coolly reply, “By God, sir, so you have.”).

“At the time he was Lord Paget,” said Marjorie, “and Lady Charlotte’s brother, Henry Cadogan, challenged him to a duel, before either the Pagets or the Wellesleys could file for divorce. Terrible mess, really. Drew out the divorce proceedings for _months_. But that was six years ago. What made you think of it, Mary?”

“Mr. Darcy was in a snit,” said Mary, unkindly, “and lecturing Mrs. Fitzwilliam that the Duke of Wellington was a rake.”

“He was not lecturing,” protested Elizabeth and, making sure Mary could not see her, mouthed, ‘Georgiana and Wickham’ at Marjorie.

Marjorie took her meaning at once, and with a sigh and a brief look of pity, said, “Oh come Mary, you are too harsh on Cousin Darcy. He was merely concerned about Mrs. Fitzwilliam, since she came back late— though I agree it is every way ridiculous to think a widow going to her usual Tuesday afternoon tea of twelve other widows and veterans, accompanied not only by a groom, a postillion, and a coachman, but also the Duke of Wellington, would be in any danger, mortal or moral.”

“So, what, he thought Mrs. Fitzwilliam forgot herself enough to elope with a married man?" Mary snorted. “I have very little patience with men of that ilk, always so terribly concerned about what people might think of their female relations without understanding what those female relations might think themselves. Anyone with eyes can see you are still deeply grieving your husband and favor Wellington’s company because he is your strongest link to the life you shared with Colonel Fitzwilliam.”

Elizabeth protested only, “You are too hard on Mr. Darcy. I brought him to understand that Wellington and I talked of Colonel Fitzwilliam nearly the entire ride there.”

“What did you talk of on the way home?” asked Mary.

Elizabeth tried to hide her blush by burying her face in her teacup. Her conduct would not bear close scrutiny there.

“The coach slipped off the road on the way back,” said Marjorie, successfully distracting Mary, “and they and the servants were all over snow when they returned, so I imagine something along the lines of ‘thank God we did not die.’”

“I _thought_ Wellington seemed a little more proprietary of Mrs. Fitzwilliam than usual,” said Mary. “Enough at least, for Mr. Darcy to notice and disapprove.”

“It was not so serious an accident as either of you think,” protested Elizabeth. “The back right wheel slid off the road, we made an incline with some bricks and a book, we all pushed the coach, and I fell into a snowbank as a result. His Grace was kind enough to scoop me out, and was annoyed with me enough to keep an eye on me all evening, to make sure I hadn’t gotten frostbite or something of the sort. That is all.”

“ _Is_ it?” asked Mary, putting an index finger to her chin, as if lost in thought. “Because, really, dear Mrs. Fitzwilliam, I don’t think it was concern for frostbite that caused him to pay you such attention.”

Elizabeth couldn’t deny it, but tried to.

“My God, Mrs. Fitzwilliam,” said Mary. “I know you are still grieving, but really! Did you follow the drum during the Spanish campaign or the Egyptian?”

“What?” asked Elizabeth, considerably bewildered.

“She is building up to a pun about denial, which is not worthy of being completed,” said Marjorie.

“His Grace is kind to me because my husband won him Waterloo,” said Elizabeth, emphatically. “That is all.”

Marjorie looked askance at Elizabeth but decided not to pursue the subject.

 

***

 

Lord Stornoway spit out his tea at breakfast the next morning, which was possibly the most exciting thing to ever happen at a Matlock House breakfast.

The ladies were all startled and stopped their desultory talk of whether or not they ought to visit the Elgin marbles tomorrow or the day after, and the Earl of Matlock looked up from his piles of correspondence to ask, “Your horse lose a race, Stornoway?”

“No, sir,” said Lord Stornoway, trying to shake the tea off of the newspaper. He looked worriedly at Elizabeth, for some reason. “My dear sister— Wellington was rather... abrupt yesterday when he left, was he not?”

“That is like saying Cousin Darcy was rather quiet,” said Elizabeth, which caused Honoria to snort. “Wellington is always abrupt.”

“But he left rather quickly.”

“He got a note from Apsley House, I think,” said Marjorie. “His secretary or something came with it. He did rather rush off once he had opened the letter.”

“I did think it an abrupt leave taking,” said Lord Matlock, taking a kidney from a chafing dish, “but these great men are pressed for time. I did not think much of it. Why, what has happened?” An alarming thought occurred; he asked quickly, “Has Napoleon escaped St. Helena?”

“No, father,” said Lord Stornoway, “but, er— poor man! It’s an equal catastrophe.”

“To Napoleon leaving St. Helena?” asked Marjorie, quite shocked. “What has happened? Did the mob assassinate Louis XVIII?”

“No,” said Stonroway, seeming rather pleased to know something no one else did— a rather unique experience for him, all told. He looked to Elizabeth again. “His Grace really didn’t mention anything to you?”

“He read his letter, swore, and left the house,” said Elizabeth. “Somewhere in there he took his leave of us. But I assume whatever was in the letter is now in the paper?”

“Yes.” Stornoway glanced around the table and said, “The Duchess of Wellington has filed for divorce.”

Marjorie dropped her toast. Elizabeth herself upset her teacup when she raised her hands to her mouth, to stifle her gasp, and the Earl was entirely unconscious of the fact that the bit of kidney he had speared on the tines of his fork had dropped onto the table cloth. Honoria and Miss Duncan did not much care about the Duke of Wellington’s domestic arrangements, but Miss Duncan roused herself enough to say, “Well and so? I thought it was common knowledge they didn’t suit.”

“People of our rank— of _their_ rank do not get divorced,” said Marjorie, a little chidingly.

“I never understood why not,” said Honoria.

“Your circles are too liberal,” said Stornoway, disapprovingly. “In our walk of life, people still care to keep their soulmarks under wraps.”

Comprehension dawned for Honoria. “Ah! I entirely forgot.”

“What?” asked Miss Duncan.

“That is still fairly shocking in my circles,” Honoria continued, ignoring her, “No one would ever let their soulmark be a matter of public record if they could help it.”

“What?” Miss Duncan tried again.

“I suppose it depends on what grounds,” said Marjorie, faintly, “but I imagine Her Grace filed on the grounds of incompatible marks?”

“Yes,” said Stornoway, squinted at his damp newspaper. He looked to Miss Duncan, and, attempting to soften his aspect and tone explained, “I suppose there is not much call for divorce among your circles, but on the grounds of incompatible marks, ah.... both parties are called to bear their marks before the judge granting the divorce and their marks become a matter of public record. Anyone in England could go look up the court case and see what mark the Duke of Wellington bears on his wrist.”

Miss Duncan nearly let out a curse.

“Good God,” said Elizabeth.

The Earl shook his head. “What a disgrace for so great a man! Public exposure of his mark! The Duchess must hate her husband.”  

Elizabeth said, confusedly, “The Duke and the Duchess quarreled over the education of their sons yesterday morning— but I had not— I did not think—”

“For all her faults, Kitty did seem devoted to him,” said Marjorie. “I cannot quite believe this— why, I always thought that she was rather frightened of him! I cannot believe she had the....”

“Tenacity?” suggested Honoria. “Gumption? Courage?”

“—yes, all of those, to file for divorce. And on such grounds! Her revenge is complete indeed. He will be humiliated.”

Honoria patted Elizabeth’s hand. “I know he is a great friend of yours, but I always heard he was downright cruel to his wife. He is well repaid. Did you not tell me he took up with two of Napoleon’s mistresses in Paris?”

Elizabeth shot a quick look at her father-in-law and shook her head a little.

“I mean, Richard told me,” amended Honoria. “To go about so publicly like that, when his wife was present, and clearly did not consent to such a thing—”

“Wasn’t it three?” asked Miss Duncan.

“Oh yes,” said Honoria, frowningly searching her memory. “Two mistresses of Napoleon, and a courtesan. What’s her name. Harriette something.”

“Wilson,” said Marjorie, then catching herself, looked a little irritated and said, “I think. I do not know for certain. I do not concern myself with the _demi-monde_.”

Elizabeth hadn’t known about the courtesan but was not particularly surprised.

“I cannot deny that he behaved very badly to her, but it still distresses me to think of the scandal,” said the Earl, at last. “England owes Wellington a good deal, but they will forget all about Waterloo as soon as they can pry into his private life.”

“Will they?” asked Honoria. “The Wellesleys have not always been pattern cards of respectability, nor do I ever remember them making good husbands. I am sure I heard that the two youngest brothers’ wives left them and the eldest brother, the Earl of Mornington, is living with a French actress.”

This was true, so Stornoway ignored it. “Honoria, really, think of what you are saying! This whole affair reflects badly on Wellington’s judgment. We are relying on the Duke of Wellington's reputation for good judgment to carry the day in the Commons.”

“Good military judgment,” protested Honoria.

“I am less concerned about that than the loss of respect this may engender,” said Marjorie. “An air of ridiculousness will attach itself to anything with his name on it.”

The Earl wiped his lips and said, “Stornoway, we must to the club. I hope to God we can still carry the day. It seemed wise at the time to attach so much importance to Wellington’s approval--”

“No one could have guessed,” said Marjorie, gently. “Why, even Mrs. Fitzwilliam had no notion of this.”

The Earl nodded and looking kindly to Elizabeth, said, “I know Wellington is a good friend of yours, my dear, and was very good to you after Richard’s death. Let His Grace know if we can do anything for him, we will do so with alacrity.”

They all rose from the table, no longer hungry. Elizabeth quickly penned a note with the Earl’s offer of assistance. She sat for longer, staring at the page, and ended up concluding, ‘We are all of us quite _bouleversé_ by this news and tho’ I scarcely know what to write, I _do_ know that I will remain, as ever, yr frnd, E. Fitzwilliam.’

By the time she had finished this and dispatched it with a messenger to Apsely House, Frances, Lady Shelley, another of Wellington's favorites, was below, taking tea with Marjorie, Honoria, Miss Duncan and Miss Crawford.

“I am not surprised by the news,” said Lady Shelley. “There were never two people so mismatched! And you should see how she lets the boys positively turn her into the housekeeper, always fetching and carrying for them. And her gowns! She never wears anything to dinner but plain white muslin, when everyone else is in full dress, and Wellington’s in his uniform with all its ribbons and honors.”

“I called upon Mrs. Knightley this morning,” said Mary. “Rather out of obligation for she has had another child and it had to be fussed over appropriately, but it was all to the good. Her husband is one of Wellington’s solicitors. The Duke was closed up with him and a number of other lawyers all night. _Apparently_ the Duchess filed the papers yesterday afternoon, and sent a message that she was doing so to Mr. Knightley, just as he was sitting down to dinner with his family. Mrs. Knightley said she never saw her husband in such a temper. He left the table, sent clerks scurrying all over London to find the Duke of Wellington, and has been pouring over his books ever since.”

“So that’s who fetched Wellington away last evening,” said Honoria.

Lady Shelley turned to Elizabeth. “How did Wellington take the news?”

“He just swore and ran out of the house,” said Elizabeth, going to Marjorie’s desk, to write another note to the Duke, this time to be delivered to the Knightleys. “I really do not know what to think. I am afraid that I never liked the Duchess, so I cannot be an impartial judge on the matter. They will be happier apart than married, but I cannot help but feel pained over the method of their separation.”

Lady Shelley shuddered. “What a way to go about it! I would rather parade nude down Bond Street than have my soulmark a matter of public record.”

“Divorce on grounds of incompatible soulmarks at least allows both parties some measure of respectability,” said Mary. “I think she was quite wise. She could have brought a _crim con_ against him any time this decade, I suppose, but heavens, how much worse the scandal would be! The proceedings would be so drawn out! All her dirty laundry would be aired! This way, she might have to wait out the season while everyone talks over the scandal of their not having matching soulmarks— which everyone already knew— but she will be received again come the fall.”

“I have never understood,” said Honoria, “why it is amongst our rank of life people are so insistent that once a woman marries a man, she must remain married to him until one or the other of them dies, even if they are dreadfully unhappy together. Divorce exists and is practiced much more often than we think below the gentry.”

“It has to do with the line of succession and inheritance,” said Marjorie, a little impatiently.

“Breeding matters,” said Honoria, disdainfully.

Mary Crawford did not bother to hide her laugh. “What, no belief in the Church of England’s insistence that marriage is until death?”

Elizabeth, who had the bitter end of “til death do us part,” changed the subject to, “How quickly do these matters go? All the paper said was that the Duchess had filed for divorce and on what grounds.”

“I imagine within a few days,” said Mary, “if both parties agree to the only evidence needed: their soulmarks.”

“I cannot imagine Wellington easily submitting to inspection of that nature,” said Lady Shelley.

Miss Duncan had taken a lawbook from the library and had been paging through it as the other women talked; now she said, “Hold a moment— it does not have to be both parties. One spouse must bring charges and show their mark to the judge, for it to be legal, but the evidence of the other spouse’s soulmark can be given by other witnesses. There must be at least two, to confirm the mark.”

“Who else could know?” asked Lady Shelley, with a gasp. “The minister who married them?”

“I should hope not; their minister was Wellington’s brother Gerald,” said Marjorie. “Really, having the Wellesley family torn apart over this seems rather too horrible a revenge for Lady Wellington to dream up.”

“Anyone else would have seen him on so intimate a footing it cannot be seen as anything but a betrayal if they do,” said Elizabeth. “I hope the Duchess has not gone that route. It would be shocking beyond everything if she had.”

In came the Countess of Lieven, big with news.

“I see you ladies are talking of the Wellington divorce,” said she, sweeping grandly into the room.

“Is there anyone in London talking of something else?” asked Mary, as they all rose to curtsey.

“No,” said the countess. “And I have rather a large sample size on which to draw upon. Well, the Arbunthots are speaking _around_ the subject, since His Grace sent a note asking to stay with them while _Her_ Grace remains in Apsley House, but that, I think, should not be counted as an exception. I suppose you all have not heard the latest?”

“No,” said Marjorie, offering the countess a cup of tea.

The countess sat down, arranging her skirts about herself, and then took her tea. She tasted it, lowered the cup, considered the taste, and then drank again.

Lady Shelley looked ready to scream.

“ _Well_ , “said the countess. “I had this all from Maria Edgeworth, who went with the Duchess to the Lord Chief Justice of the Divorce Court. Her Grace presented the petition, showed her soulmark and brought with her one witness— this tea could use some sugar.”

Marjorie hastily doctored it.

The countess regally sipped her tea, pronounced it fine and said, “Her Grace brought with her one witness— her doctor. Who had treated the Duke for a slight fever last week and therefore seen his soulmark.”

Elizabeth cried, “Abominable! That goes against the Hippocratic Oath, I am sure!”

“I daresay it does,” said the countess, with a delicate lift of her eyebrows. “But the doctor does not expect to stay long in his profession.”

“What on earth can you mean?” Lady Shelley demanded.

“The Doctor is an elderly man named Jackson, whose son is named — I swear to God— Timothy “Tacticus” Jackson. The young Mr. Tacticus Jackson is the tutor to the Wellington boys. Furthermore, the young Mr. Jackson is— hold a moment, is that cake?”

Marjorie impatiently hacked off a piece and set it down before the Countess.

“Young Mr. Jackson is what, out of a job?” demanded Lady Shelley.

“Mm, yes,” said she, carefully impaling a piece of cake on the tines of her fork. “For as it turns out, he is the Duchess’s match.”

The Countess continued on precisely and properly with her cake, rather enjoying the shock of all the women about her.

“No,” said Mary, delighted and scandalized.

“Yes, Maria saw their marks herself,” said the Countess. “Yesterday young Jackson also discovered he is the heir to a small estate in Ireland. He, the Duchess, and his parents all propose to retire there as soon as can be contrived, for he has apparently been in love with the Duchess for years. He confessed his feelings to her as soon as he learnt he was a landed gentleman. The Duchess had been struggling against pretty similar feelings, confessed her struggle, and revealed her soulmark. Young Jackson revealed his, and before the Duke could even return from visiting some veterans, Young Jackson had convinced the Duchess to file for divorce, persuaded his father to violate his Hippocratic Oath, and taken her to the court.”

The ladies were all flabbergasted, though one of them murmured that of course it hadn't been the Duchess’s idea.

Mary Crawford remarked, “A quick worker is our young Tacticus. He outmaneuvered even the Duke of Wellington, in gaining his object!”

“But they need a second witness,” Elizabeth could only think to say. “He seems not to have thought through his entire plan of attack.”

“If Mr. Jackson hopes to embarrass Wellington into showing his mark, he has vastly misunderstood his opponent,” agreed the countess. “I never met a man who is so governed by pride as Wellington. _However_.”

“However?” asked Marjorie, deliberately moving to stand before the tea things, to keep them out of the Countess’s line of sight.

“However— the Duchess has two great friends does she not?”

“Lady Olivia Sparrow?” asked Elizabeth, perplexed.

“Well, three,” acknowledged the countess.

“What has Mrs. Willoughby to do with this?” asked Marjorie, much surprised.

“I do not yet know,” said the countess, examining the bit of cake on the tines of her fork, “but the Willoughby coach was spotted before the house of a woman Mrs. Willoughby would never deign to call upon unless the Duchess was at some pains to find a second witness....”

Mary gasped and said, in a tone of delighted shock, “No! It cannot be— but I suppose she would know of the lady through her husband—”

“Who?” demanded Lady Shelley.

“Harriette Wilson,” said the countess.

The shock was universal. Lady Shelley made a vague attempt at not knowing who this infamous courtesan was, but gave it up quickly enough.

“I cannot imagine how Wellington must have reacted to this news,” said she instead, eyes wide.

“There is a man punished enough for his sins to please even you, Mary,” said Marjorie.

“I cannot think Miss Wilson will remain long in business if this is how she treats her clients,” observed Honoria, prosaically.

The countess of Lieven concluded her production with, “She does not intend to! I suppose you have all heard she met her match last month?”

“Some South American soldier?” asked Mary.

“That’s the one. She is now determined on a change in career, and decided she would become an author. Her tell-all memoirs will soon be in publication. I have heard that she is threatening exposure to anyone who does not pay to be removed. I suppose the Duke was too proud to pay her and now she will testify against him. Every man in London must be quaking in his boo— oh, it is almost dinner. Every man in London must be quaking in his dressing slippers.”

This was so great a scandal no one entirely knew what to do. Marjorie declared that no one in London would be dining that evening; they would all be taking trays in various rooms, as men rushed to Miss Wilson. It gratified her extremely that Lord Stornoway was not one of them, though she really had no grounds to fear. Stornoway had always been conscientiously faithful.

“The Fitzwilliam line,” said Marjorie, tapping her soulmark, as she and Elizabeth lounged on divans before the fire, ostensibly dressing for dinner. They were being lazy about it; dinner had been pushed back an extra hour, to allow the Earl to finish responding to the flurry of correspondence he had received about his bill, and, as Honoria and Miss Duncan had gone off to a dinner party with the sculptor Anne Damer, and they would be only four at table that evening, Elizabeth and Marjorie were not making great efforts with their appearances. “There can only be one! A limited view, but one that saves us from the common run of embarrassments.”

Elizabeth, hugging her bombazine-skirted legs to her chest, said, “Oh what a hopeless mess! I cannot say Wellington has been blameless, but—”

“But this is extreme revenge,” said Marjorie, topping off both of their glasses of wine. “She might as well have had him parade nude before the crowned heads of Europe. I suppose he could recover from it—but I am not yet sure how. You know, what _I_ cannot understand is why she is pushing for a divorce _now_.”

“I do,” said Elizabeth, picking up her glass. “Wellington told me he and his wife stayed married for the sake of their boys primarily.”

“And Harriet said they were quarreling over whether or not to send the boys to Eton!” Marjorie picked up her own glass and took a fortifying sip. “Good Lord, no wonder she struck at his soul— he was threatening to take from her the only two things that gave her any comfort.”

“He didn't mean to, or know he was,” protested Elizabeth.

“That doesn't change how it affected her, unfortunately.”

Elizabeth sighed and applied herself to her wine.

“That _is_ the problem, isn't it?” Marjorie mused. “Neither the Duke nor the Duchess have idea how to relate to each other, so they do not know how easily they hurt each other. Women can prove remarkably resourceful when they are backed into a corner— I am impressed with our sex. I almost like the Duchess of Wellington for this. It is too bad she has accidentally destabilized Europe.”

“Do you think it would be that bad?”

“My dear,” said Marjorie, “the state of European politics has always been one of barely concealed hostility and distrust, occasionally bridged by an arbitrary conduit that allows the various states to work together towards their mutual interests while maintaining their ancient rivalries. Napoleon tried to force everyone to accept him as that conduit. People hate being forced into anything, so they went and picked his opposite: Wellington. All our friends at the Congress of Vienna may privately despise Wellington, but they do respect him. Can they respect him when they have such intimate, scandalous knowledge of him? Could _you_ respect a man who... I don't know, I cannot think of a metaphor quite as serious! Whose wife, I suppose, thrusts him naked from the house and points to the most private parts of his body as a reason why his judgment is suspect? A part that might leave him open not just to ridicule, but blackmail, or importuning whores or agents of foreign governments?” Marjorie held out the bottle of sweet Tokay wine.

Elizabeth accepted a refill. “But he is a man— his reputation would recover. Byron recovered, after Lady Caroline Lamb revealed his mark.”

“Did he though? Lady Byron moved back in with her parents, and got an injunction against him from seeing their daughter again. Almost everyone thinks his half-sister Augusta Leigh’s child is both his niece and his daughter. Byron had to flee to Europe. I am sure one of the only reasons he is still received is because he is a poet, and one tends to expect strange passions from their sort.”

Elizabeth admitted that Marjorie had better information about Lord Byron’s social career than herself.

Marjorie looked consideringly at the bottle, as if she might like to drink straight from it. “Oh I hate this. From a personal perspective I must side with the Duchess and say it was right to divorce. They had only been making each other unhappy for years. She found someone with whom she could be happy, and give her a life more suited to her disposition. From a public perspective... well, I suppose the divorce is not so much the issue as the public reveal of his soulmark. Some Catholics would refuse to work with him because of the divorce, but at least the Spanish would tell him he was wrong to think that his soulmark meant anything but the name of his patron saint and forgive him because he liberated their country. Portugal would follow the Spanish lead, I suppose—”

A maid came up, not to announce dinner was ready, but that there was a visitor below.

“At this hour?” Marjorie asked, aghast. “Everyone ought to be dressing for dinner! Who could it possibly be?”

The Duke of Wellington, as it turned out.


	3. In which Mr. John Knightley displays his legal skills

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With many, MANY thanks to eleith for the beta-work (especially her help making sure all this made up legalese made sense!), and to Liz for supplying me, all the way back in the comments of an early chapter of "An Ever-Fixed Mark," the Duke of Wellington's soul-mark.

“Your Grace!” Elizabeth exclaimed involuntarily, stopping halfway down the stairs. Marjorie nearly tripped over her, but managed to catch herself by gracefully putting an arm about Elizabeth’s waist and walking down the stairs in a show of inadvertent female solidarity.

“This is an unexpected pleasure,” said Marjorie, more graciously.

Wellington was not in the mood for pleasantries. He was in his usual riding dress of boots, white trowsers, caped greatcoat, and blue coat with star, looking so irritable one of the footmen usually stationed in the foyer was visibly terrified, and the other appeared to have fled. “Lady Stornoway, Mrs. Fitzwilliam. I suppose you know why I am here.”

“I know why you are not at home, which is perhaps the same thing,” said Marjorie, carefully. “But I had thought you would dine with the Arbuthnots, sir.”

Wellington snorted. “And so did Kitty and her pack of lawyers.”

“You are of course welcome to dine with us, sir—” 

Wellington shook his head. “I hope my business will not take that long— devil take it,” he interrupted himself, opening the door and peering out. “They noticed I slipped out of Knightley’s! I had hoped to call and be on my way at once but—”

“I take it you wish to avoid your followers?” asked Marjorie, as she and Elizabeth peered out the door, around Wellington’s greatcoat-clad shoulder. Elizabeth saw nothing, in the gathering gloom, but heard the sound of hoofbeats.

The footman holding Copenhagen in place added, helpfully, “There’s a man on horseback galloping down the street, your ladyship.”

“Damn the lot of them,” groused Wellington. “Beg pardon ladies.”

“Your Grace,  _ really _ !” Marjorie chided him. “No need for that sort of language; I am perfectly up to the challenge.” She picked up the purse kept in the hall to pay couriers and ran quickly down the steps. “You there— go round to the stables at once, but don't take the horse in until you hear all the staff there go into His Lordship’s study. Throw a blanket over him or something, keep the horse from being recognized, if you can.” A couple of coins changed hands and Marjorie ran briskly back in, saying, “You there— is your name Thomas?”

“It is, your ladyship,” Thomas the footman managed to get out, shutting the door on the noise of horse hooves and people shouting outside.

“Who else knows the Duke of Wellington is here?”

“Myself, Mark outside, and Betsy, my lady.” Thomas nodded to the parlormaid hovering discreetly by the main stairs.

Marjorie held up a half-crown piece. “This is for you, if you can contrive to get to the stables before the other footman, and tell all the staff I wish to see them immediately in the main parlor.”

“What— what ought I to tell them, milady?”

“You wish to thank them for their help in my safe return yesterday?” Elizabeth suggested.

Marjorie favored Elizabeth with an approving look. “Well thought, my dear.” Then to the footman, “Tell them that. I haven't any notion who really helped so they all just come and I shall reward them all.”

The footman bowed and ran off.

Marjorie turned next to Betsy, the parlormaid who had fetched them. “Follow us to Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s sitting room.” They went off quickly, Marjorie murmuring,  _ sotto voce  _ that this was the room most likely to have a fire and be farthest from the road. Someone was now pounding on the door. Marjorie turned, irritated, and said, “Lizzy, take His Grace and have the maid build up the fire. I’ll take care of this.”

Once this was accomplished and Wellington, more annoyed than Elizabeth had ever seen him before, was pacing before the fire, Marjorie reappeared. 

“One of Kitty’s lawyers, was it?” asked Wellington.

“I told a law clerk you were staying with the Arbuthnots, and that he could not expect to advance much in his profession, if he could not tell apart the houses of a prominent Whig hostess from a Tory. Rather amusing, but it means I have only six minutes, perhaps seven, before the servants come up.” She perched on the edge of the backless white divan Elizabeth hated and kept closest to the door, poised to rise again at any moment. “I fear we must speak quickly. I believe Mrs. Fitzwilliam already wrote to you, promising our assistance?”

Wellington paused in his irritated perambulations. “Yes, and I thank you all for it, and regret to say I must take you up on the offer. The Duchess has humbugged me, by God, and nearly as well as Napoleon did at Waterloo. I suppose you have heard all the details?”

Elizabeth and Marjorie exchanged speaking glances; Marjorie said, “Mrs. Fitzwilliam can fill you in on what’s being said. But I know we know more than Stornoway. He scarcely heard anything at all at his club, except that the Duchess had filed for divorce on the grounds of incompatible soulmarks. No one knew anything else, or had heard of the complications of witnesses, as we did.”

Wellington was not at all surprised by this. “So there is something to salvage, still. By a bunch of flim-flammery, my lawyer Knightley’s managed to keep the divorce from going through on a technicality. Until I am notified of the proceedings by official channels— meaning the fool of a clerk you sent running to the Arbuthnots gives me a specific set of papers— the motion cannot be filed.”

“But could it otherwise go through?” asked Elizabeth, feeling she already knew the answer.

Wellington mastered his temper with an effort, though he could not keep from sounding coldly irritated. “The Duchess bared her wrist before the Lord Chief Justice of the Divorce Court. She brought in two witnesses that confirmed, independently, without seeing or knowing each other, what was on mine. That, Knightley says, is considered sufficient grounds to begin the motion.”

“And they can just... file the papers as soon as you have been notified?”

“As soon as I have been notified, and have confirmed my soulmark is correctly set down,” said Wellington, grimly. “Once I have, the papers are returned to the judge and are filed. If the witnesses spoke in error, I may always bare my own wrist before the judge to prove it. It is set down, and the papers are filed. Either way my mark becomes public knowledge. A remarkable legal trap!”

“Oh sir,” said Elizabeth, feeling truly sorry for him.

“Are we hiding you for the evening, sir, or might we be of more material help?” asked Marjorie.

“Both,” said Wellington. He turned to Elizabeth and said, “Mrs. Fitz— I know Darcy is great friend of yours. How close is he to his great-uncle?”

“His great-uncle....” Elizabeth searched her memory. “Oh! The judge!”

“The Lord Chief Justice of the Court of Appeals,” said Marjorie, catching on. “Ah ha!”

Wellington inclined his head. “Just so!”

Elizabeth nearly started from her own chair, to run to Darcy House at once. “Why— Mr. Darcy sees his great-uncle very frequently while in town! The Darcys are not a numerous family; I believe Lord Darcy is Mr. Darcy’s closest relation on his father’s side.”

“And what could be more usual than Mr. Darcy dining here,” said Marjorie, catching on. “And bringing his relation— what could be more natural!” She hesitated a moment and said, “Though, I fear sir, Mr. Darcy is not your greatest admirer; Mrs. Fitzwilliam might have to persuade him.”

Wellington looked mildly amused. “I am well aware. I rely on your standing my friend, Mrs. Fitz. Knightley’s got rather an ingenious idea to keep me out of this particular trap, but he cannot vouch for it until a judge has heard it and can confirm its legality.”

“Mr. Knightley knows no judges?”

“Mr. Knightley is being watched, as I am,” said Wellington. “And Mr. Knightley is not so confident in the originality of his genius that Lady Wellington’s lawyer will not guess what he means to do and try to stop him, one way or another.”

“You mean,” asked Marjorie, trying to follow this, “to stop the divorce?”

Wellington paused and struggled with himself for composure; his irritation had risen again to almost implacable heights. He said, shortly, “After my opening salvo, the Duchess was so kind as to send me— via  _ my mother _ , no less— an extremely incoherent note which claims I have driven her to such desperation she must have a divorce or die. I somehow doubt the Duchess would suffer anything more death-like than a severe nervous headache, but I shall grant her the dignity she has not afforded me, and take seriously the idea she will not be shaken from her determination to divorce. And why the devil wouldn’t she? She’s met her true match.” This last was said with considerable bitterness of spirit. “I should be the monster she accused me of being, if I was so insensible against such all-conquering proof of matrimonial suitability.”

Marjorie stood to get a closer look at the clock on the mantle. “I must to my own parlor— Lizzy, stay here until I return. Then I shall... is it acting as a pocket or something?”

“You shall be the picquet,” said Elizabeth, “and relieve me as a guard.”

“Yes— then if you will run down the street to Darcy House, I think we might manage this business successfully enough.”

Elizabeth spent about a quarter of an hour explaining to Wellington all she had heard that day, and was distressed to hear that it was mostly true. Ever since her husband’s death, Elizabeth had cried more easily than before; now hearing Wellington confirm a series of very intimate betrayals, from wife, doctor, and lover, made her weep.

“What’s this?” asked Wellington, taking out his handkerchief, and making a fuss about drying her cheeks, to make her laugh instead of cry. Her tears seemed to afford a rather unusual unction to his soul, visibly smoothing the harshest edges of his anger and irritation; and his astonishment at her reaction was not unmixed with gratitude. “No tears, my dear, it is the very devil of a mess, but reserve your pity. I am a fool, a damned fool, and am justly paying for it. As Knightley indelicately pointed out, none of this would have happened if I had behaved as I ought. And as my brother Mornington added, I am not the first man to have put my trust in the wrong woman, or women, as the case happens to be. Blow.”

Elizabeth did not comply with this, but made a face at him and took the handkerchief to wipe her nose more discreetly. “I hope you do not blame the whole of my sex.”

“Ha! I would hardly have come to you and Lady Stornoway if that was the case. If anything, it has taught me the very great danger of  _ underestimating _ your sex. No, keep that, until you can wash it.”

Elizabeth dried her eyes and tried to calm herself. “I never quite understood,” said she, still sniffling a little, “how you could remain so calm under the severest strain.”

Wellington looked wryly pleased with her praise, and affectionately flicked a flyaway curl off of her tear-damp cheek. “Lack of other options, my dear.”

There came a knock at the door; Elizabeth rose and cautiously opened it a crack, before seeing it was Marjorie, and Betsy the parlormaid, holding Elizabeth’s walking boots and newly cleaned sables. Elizabeth held the door open for the two women to enter.

“I take it we heard a pretty exact recounting of events,” Marjorie said, taking in Elizabeth’s tear-stained countenance. Elizabeth, a little embarrassed, ducked her head and pretended to be absorbed in the task of changing evening slippers for boots. “Unless it was worse?”

Wellington said, “Ha!”

Marjorie had an empty change purse about her wrist, and a newspaper tucked under her arm. This first item she abandoned on top of Elizabeth’s work table and the Christening Gown That Would Never Be Finished, and the latter she handed to Wellington. “I hesitated bringing this to you, but I thought you might wish to see how matters stood. Were you with your lawyers all day?”

“I paid a call on the Prince Regent, who rather envied me a divorce, and was supremely unhelpful. He was very sorry, of course, that my mark should be public commons, but short of issuing a royal ordinance that would throw the whole judicial system into the wildest confusion, he could not do much.”

Marjorie nodded. “This is a matter for society, not government, however much they may abut— while Mrs. Fitzwilliam is fetching the Darcys, shall I send for Mr. Knightley? He is our lawyer, too; I cannot think Lady Wellington’s lawyers will be suspicious if I ask him to dine with us.”

This was agreed to. Betsy was sent to alert the cook that there would be eight, instead of four at dinner, and as Lady Stornoway was very sorry for doubling the number as such late notice, they would dine informally, without removes or more than two footmen. “Let anyone who asks know that Mr. Darcy is bringing his great-uncle to dinner, and as none of us can entertain him with legal talk, I invited our lawyer and his wife to dine with us. Understood? Good— oh, and Thomas is to accompany Mrs. Fitzwilliam out of doors.”  

Elizabeth went quickly down the block, feeling unnerved to be doing so so late in the evening. She had grown gradually used to the unwritten rules of London— never walk without friend or footman, and never late in the evening; call during only these hours and no other — and had unthinkingly adhered to them. She contented herself with the knowledge that necessity, or rather, necessity and concern for others, had spurred any lapses in propriety.

“Thomas, is the rider gone?” asked Elizabeth, searching the empty streets, the overlapping pools of lantern-light, and candlelight from the large front windows of the houses.

“Yes, Madam,” said Thomas, a little startled to be addressed. “He came back but Mr. Stebbins, ma’am, he has no idea the Duke is in your parlor. You ought to have heard him go off on the clerk! He was very vexed, was Mr. Stebbins, hearing how the clerk made so much noise the first time, Her Ladyship came to the door herself and made him go away. But hold madam, there’s the boy that he left behind.”

A clerk’s copy boy was watching them with suspicion from the square.

It was with great relief Elizabeth raised and let fall the knocker, and edged past the astonished butler with a hasty, “I am so sorry, but I must speak with Mr. Darcy immediately, it is a matter of some urgency. Thomas, stay in the hall please, this will only take me two minutes.”

The butler showed Elizabeth into Darcy’s bookroom at once. Darcy was sorting through letters, but at the sound of the door opening, he dropped these, rose to his feet and and exclaimed, “Elizabeth? Good God, what is the matter?”

She hastily scrubbed at her cheeks with the palm of her gloved right hand and said, “Oh no, there is nothing wrong with me. I was upset earlier, but I am fine now— hello Boatswain!”

The Newfoundland lolling by the fire came eagerly ambling over, butting eagerly at her knees, with enough force to nearly knock her over.

“Heel,” said Darcy, sharply. “Come in, please— Graham, a glass of wine for Mrs. Fitzwilliam.”

“I don’t need one,” protested Elizabeth, brushing dog fur off of her sables. “But I do need your help.”

“Of course,” said Darcy, immediately. “Whatever it is you need, you have only to ask it.” He gestured to the chair on the other side of his desk but then said, distractedly, “I am sorry, Graham ought to take your cloak first.”

“I am only here a moment,” said Elizabeth, “or so I hope— but I—” She glanced at the butler, who promptly bowed and vanished, as if he had never existed in the first place. Elizabeth took the seat opposite Darcy’s and said, hesitatingly, “It is something I am afraid you will not like, so, at present, I ask only that you listen to me all the way through before saying anything. Will you do that for me, Darcy?”

“Yes.”

Elizabeth felt a stir of despair. She had ever known Darcy as a high-stickler, almost immovable when he thought himself right, censorious of the slightest impropriety— how on earth would he react to being dragged into the greatest scandal of the season? “I am sorry to have frightened you just now, but matters are rather grave over at Matlock House. No one is injured or ill, that I can assure you, but I— perhaps I ought to explain that we are all trying very hard to avert a scandal Marjorie thinks could destabilize the balance of power in Europe. I do not know if matters are as terrible as that, but I trust her judgment on this, and I must confess that though no one has behaved as they ought in this situation, there is no need for so drastic a conclusion as we seem to be heading towards.”

Darcy said, after a moment, “Why are you all swept up into the Wellington divorce?”

“Because,” said Elizabeth, “we made what we thought was a good political choice, and harnessed our bill to Wellington’s star. Should it fall to earth, so will half-a-year’s work, and the last gift any of us can offer Richard.”

Darcy struggled with himself. 

Elizabeth added, “And the mind rebels— every proper feeling is outraged— at the idea of someone exposing another person’s mark like this. Wellington is the first to admit he did not behave as he ought and brought some of this grief upon himself... but he does not deserve to have his soulmark made public knowledge without his consent. No one does.” Darcy seemed struck with this point; Elizabeth recalled that Darcy’s last meeting with Mr. Wickham had revolved around a pretty similar threat. She pressed on, gently, “Particularly when the consequences are so disastrous and effect so many more people than just himself.”

Darcy’s sense of duty warred with his sense of propriety, expressing itself in a faint tightness about the eyes, and the beginning of a grimace.

Elizabeth was less certain of this point, but added uncertainly, “I know you dislike him, but Wellington is not all bad. He helped me attend Richard’s funeral.” The memory of it made her feel rather emotional. “It is a debt I can never repay.”

Darcy’s compassion began to gain the upper hand. “What is it you require of me?”

“Nothing very much— just to come to dinner, and to bring your great-uncle, the judge.”

Darcy checked his pocket watch. “If we take the carriage now, my uncle will not yet have had his supper; he might be persuaded to dine a second time. I fear I will not have time to change myself; I had planned on a tray in my bookroom.”

“His Grace is still in boots and riding clothes,” said Elizabeth. “We dine very informally this evening.”

“Promise me one thing,” said Darcy, rising from his desk.

“Name it!”

“You will no longer consider yourself in anyone’s debt after this.”

“Not even my modiste? I am afraid she will not be very pleased to hear it!” But, at Darcy’s look, she bit back the relief masquerading as archness and said, more meekly, “I understand.”

“Not mine,” clarified Darcy, “and  _ certainly not  _ the Duke of Wellington’s.”

Elizabeth agreed to this.

Darcy looked considerably relieved.

 

***

 

Lord Darcy was surprised to see them, and not particularly pleased. Like most Darcys, he was reserved by nature, and private by inclination. He was a widower of many years standing, who spent most of his time working, and who did not enjoy dining out more than three times a week. When he did dine out, he treated it with grave solemnity, and entered each house as he might enter the courtroom at the beginning of a new case. To be invited to dine at the unheard of hour of  _ seven thirty _ (he himself dined at four and took his supper at eight, before going to bed at ten), perhaps ten minutes before the dinner was put on the table, struck him as absurd..

Elizabeth, who knew Lord Darcy was passionately fond of riddles and conundrums, sank onto the ottoman by his chair and laid out the more complicated aspects of the Duke of Wellington’s legal troubles, as best she understood them. Lord Darcy’s pique faded.

“Hm,” said he, folding his hands over his stomach, his interest caught. “And Mr. Knightley has an ingenious solution, eh?”

“That is what the Duke of Wellington told me,” said Elizabeth.

“I wonder....” He trailed off and looked thoughtfully at a spot just above Elizabeth’s head. “Hm. I’ve an idea myself. I should like to know if Knightley thought of it too. Well! I shall come, if only for that. Fitzwilliam— my nephew, not you, Mrs. Fitzwilliam— will you hand me my cane? I do not get about very easily, these days.”

They arrived at Matlock House at the same time as Mr. John Knightley, who was about as vexed as his client. Though Elizabeth had not thought anyone could match the Duke of Wellington in terms of irritability, Mr. Knightley was on a way to exceed him.

“Upon my word,” he grumbled, passing his coat and hat to Betsy (Stebbins the butler had been asked to find a very specific bottle of wine Marjorie knew did not exist in the Matlock cellars), “to cause a man to ignore his wife and children for two evenings entire— the Duchess of Wellington is fast becoming my least favorite person in London.”

“I do not think she will be anyone’s favorite after this,” said Marjorie, ushering them down the hall.  “Mr. Knightley, how good of you to join us. Cousin Darcy, Lord Darcy, likewise. Come, let us walk in. We dine very informally this evening.”

They dined at a round table in one of the small parlors at the back of the house, rather than the dining room, with the men (save Lord Darcy) still all in morning dress. Elizabeth felt over-dressed in her bombazine and jet beads, though Marjorie managed to look as if dark blue velvet and ancestral sapphires were her trimmings of choice for informal evening at home. Mark and Thomas, the footmen who had opened the door for Wellington, were their only attendants.

The Earl gestured for Thomas to begin serving the soup, and said, “My Lord Darcy, we are grateful for your coming here this evening. I know you dislike such last-minute affairs. Has my daughter-in-law explained the situation to you?”

“She has summarized it, my lord,” said Lord Darcy, looking critically at his wine glass. Lord Darcy was inclined toward suspicion of any wine cellar but his own, and sniffed the wine before taking a cautious sip and swirling it about his mouth. “Mm. Palatable. Very palatable.” He then looked significantly at both of the footmen. Marjorie quickly and quietly sent them away.

Lord Darcy began again, “I trust Mrs. Fitzwilliam's understanding of the situation, but I should like to hear of all of the interactions between you, Mr. Knightley,  and the Duchess’s lawyer, a Mr...?”

“Mr. Thorpe,” supplied Mr. Knightley.

“Yes, that’s the fellow. Brother to the Thorpes of Bath, I believe.”

Mr. Knightley did not care about this, and merely began his tale. “Mr. Thorpe sent a messenger ‘round at dinner last evening, saying that his client, Catherine Pakenham, Duchess of Wellington, had gone to the home of the Chief Justice of the Divorce Court, and begun a motion for divorce, on the grounds of incompatible soulmarks. She bared her wrist before his lordship and his lordship put it down. She brought with her a Dr. Jackson, who offered his testimony of the Duke’s mark. After we located His Grace, we sent a reply to Mr. Thorpe, asking what the devil the Duchess was playing at. We imagined she had only half-thought through this plan, and by a shew of force, we could convince her to give up this motion. She instead went to His Grace the Duke of Wellington’s mother, the Dowager Countess of Mornington, and enacted a Cheltenham tragedy before giving her this note to give to His Grace, the Duke of Wellington.” Mr. Knightley removed it from his waistcoat pocket and passed it over to Lord Darcy.

Lord Darcy unfolded it and read it with a look of increasing amusement. “Well! Some of it almost rose to coherence.”

“Ha!” said Wellington, testily.

“Why did she go to the Countess of Mornington?” asked Stornoway, stirring his soup with an air of vague discomfort.

“I asked my mother to go look in on the boys,” said Wellington. “She remains with them, as long as the Duchess and, ah... Mr. Jackson are at Apsley House.”

Marjorie nodded. “Very wise.”

“Have the boys been told anything?” asked Stornoway.

“No. As far as they are aware, their mother—” this said somewhat bitterly “—and I are having a quarrel. This is not unusual, and did not much disturb them; the fact that my mother and the nursery maid are attending them instead of the Duchess and Mr. Jackson naturally caused them some alarm, but my mother is not the sort of person anyone dares question. They know the consequences of pressing her too intently tend to be very unpleasant.”

“The note arrived,” said Mr. Knightley, annoyed at these interruptions, “at about ten-o-clock last night, as the Countess of Mornington found it so alarming a missive she had it sent to my house at once. It became clear to us the Duchess would not withdraw the motion. Mr. Thorpe invaded my house at nearly midnight—” a hanging offense, Mr. Knightley’s tone seemed to imply “—and we agreed that until this matter was resolved, and as Mr. Jackson had no establishment in which to remove himself, His Grace would kindly allow the Duchess and Mr. Jackson to remain at Apsley House — provided that neither party talked to the boys. This was an extremely difficult caveat for the Duchess, and we quite wore out my copy boy negotiating it until nearly one of the clock. The copy boy came back with some clothes for His Grace on the last run; and His Grace stayed with us. The next morning, we discovered some enterprising newspapermen like to hang around the divorce court and record what they see. Mr. Thorpe’s copy boy was at the house before anyone was shaved or dressed.”

“I suppose Mr. Thorpe hoped public pressure would cause a speedy conclusion?” asked Lord Darcy.

“Yes. We offered a separation; this was rejected out of hand. It was the determination of the Duchess and Mr. Jackson to marry and to marry as soon as possible. We then received a note from the Foreign Office—clearly written by the Foreign Secretary, Lord Castlereagh, though not signed by him— saying that it was in the government's best interests if the Duke of Wellington’s soulmark remained private knowledge. They were willing to put significant pressure on Lady Wellington if she refused. I imagine a pretty similar note was sent to Lady Wellington, for the woman became so desperate, she importuned a courtesan to be her second witness.”

Elizabeth— seated next to Wellington, as per usual— tried not to look at him too worriedly. He was ignoring the soup in front of him in order to drum his fingers on the tablecloth. Wellington always got quiet with anger; she was not surprised he had fallen so gravely silent.

“Ah ha,” said Lord Darcy. “So. Her mark was recorded and the mark on my lord Wellington’s wrist was independently verified by two independent witnesses. Is there some possibility of collusion?”

“That is what we hoped, and hired a Bow Street Runner to investigate, but Harriette Wilson signed an affidavit declaring that she had never met anyone involved in the case but His Grace, the Duke of Wellington. However, I have managed to put a temporary halt to the proceedings.”

“How so?”

“By keeping the papers from being delivered to His Grace, the Duke of Wellington,” said Mr. Knightley, a little smug. “They must come to His Grace before they can be filed, and added to the public record.”

“Ah ha,” said Lord Darcy, appreciatively. “Very clever. But that is a delaying tactic, sir. I do not know how long your client can avoid being served the papers. A week? Perhaps two? At some point, His Grace must either confirm the testimony is correct, or go to the judge and show his mark to prove it wrong.”

Mr. Knightley had been applying himself to his soup during this speech, and, upon swallowing the last mouthful, said, with some slyness, “Correct sir, but it gave me enough time to make your acquaintance.”

“And, here, sir,” said Lord Darcy, looking eager, “is where you lay before me the ingenious solution Mrs. Fitzwilliam promised, eh? It is a clever little legal riddle so far.”

“I am sure you have guessed, my lord.”

“I have  _ a  _ guess— but I should like to know one or two things before being perfectly satisfied. The first of which is this: do you—” turning to Wellington “—mean to contest the divorce, Your Grace?”

“No,” said Wellington, after a moment.

“Ah,” said Lord Darcy, in a tone of sympathy and understanding mixed. “Then what is your aim in this, Your Grace?”

“My aim is to keep my mark off the public record. I have an army comprised of soldiers from five different allied nations to command. How can they respect me when my mark is a subject of common gossip? We live in a liberal era, but not as liberal as all  _ that _ .”

“Very true,” murmured the Earl.

“And it would be a demmed embarrassment at home,” added Stornoway, accurately, but unkindly.

Marjorie put her hand over his and patting it, said, “What my husband means to say, is that the revelation of the Duke of Wellington’s mark would be as much of a domestic problem as an international one. It is in the interest of the current balance of power, and the nation as a whole, to keep His Grace’s mark under wraps.”

Wellington looked stony-faced. Elizabeth longed to comfort him; she could only look her sympathy.

“Now,” said Lord Darcy, “I must eliminate one more theory: have you an idea of appealing to the ecclesiastical church courts for an annulment?”

Wellington asked, “Is there any annulment that would keep my sons from being declared illegitimate?”

“I am afraid not, sir,” said Lord Darcy. “An annulment wipes from history the existence of a marriage, but casts all of its proper issue into impropriety. If you were never married, you never sired heirs, in the eyes of the law. But it might have been a solution. True, you and the Duchess would have to bare your wrists before a bishop, but the clergy are bound by their vows to keep confidential the marks they had seen, and never keep records of their parishoner’s marks.” Lord Darcy took a thoughtful sip of his wine and then said, “I think there is one way forward. Mr. Knightley, indulge me. What is your idea?”

“The Duchess of Wellington,” said Mr. Knightley, “must withdraw her case and bring a different suit against His Grace.”

“On what grounds?” asked Stornoway.

Lord Darcy said, speculatively, “A  _ crim con  _ would require Parliamentary intervention, which would drag out the process and cause a scandal, though without the same degree of humiliation, or the potential unbalancing of power. Neglect would require several months of processing. Cruelty is out. I have heard too much of your character, Your Grace, to believe you would ever beat your wife. Even if you did think it necessary, you would not do it. It is not in your nature to do violence to a lady, and it would offend your pride to punish Her Ladyship as you might any common soldier.”

“My thanks for so glowing a review of my character,” said Wellington, dryly.

“So it must be incompatible soulmarks?” asked the Earl, looking aggrieved. “I confess, I cannot see how this is a solution. Two soulmarks must be made a matter of public record, if I understand the Hardwicke Act of ‘53 at all, which I flatter myself, I do. My father helped write it.”

“Yes— but the marks do not necessarily need to be  _ the Duke’s _ and the Duchess’s,” said Mr. Knightley, leaning back in his chair and looking very satisfied with himself.

“Good lad,” said Lord Darcy, roused to real enthusiasm. “Very good! But I go ahead of myself. Lay out the case sir, lay out the case!”

“The principle behind all the regulations and restrictions laid out in the Hardwicke Act is to make civil law the same as ecclesiastical law: if two individuals have matching marks, it is the will of a higher authority that those two individuals ought to live civilly together. This gave us the first form of domestic partnerships for soulmates of the same sex since Charles II, and made it awkward for widows or widowers to remarry for companionship, or the getting of an heir, which caused the Commons to pass, two years later, the Marriage Reform Act of ‘55. Now, both of these acts accepts, as a basic principle, that for every British citizen for whom this law applies, there is only one person that individual is intended to marry by a higher authority, i.e. a soulmate. A soulmate is defined purely as a person whose mark matches your own.”

Lord Darcy was extremely animated, a marked contrast from the rest of the table. He asked, delighted, “And so...?”

“And so,” concluded Mr. Knightley, “I think it would fulfill not only the letter of the law, but the general principle, if, instead of the Duke of Wellington showing his mark is  _ not  _ a match with the Duchess’s, Mr. Jackson showed that his mark  _ is _ .”

The members of the party who were not legal scholars took a moment to absorb this information, but Lord Darcy pounded his fist on the table and declared, “By God sir, you are a lawyer of the first class! I shall see you a judge someday!”

“Thank you, my lord,” said Mr. Knightley, rather smug. “But what say you to my brief?”

“I say it is a damned good idea! If you presented it to me in court, I should accept it at once. And I shall tell Sir George—” this being the Lord Chief Justice of the Divorce Court “—that I think this a damned good interpretation of the law.”

“We thank you very sincerely my lord,” said Mr. Knightley. “And I would be most gratified if you would co-sign a note to that effect that I might send to Mr. Thorpe.”

“Of course!”

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” said Marjorie, turning all this over in her mind, “but how would you convince the Duchess to agree to such a scheme? She has all the cards.”

“Except one,” said Lord Darcy. “Custody.”

Mr. Knightley and the Duke looked unhappy and displeased, and His Grace said, irritably, “I should think Lady Wellington would be alive enough to the tenuous balance of international power to agree on that basis alone.”

“If you will forgive the observation, sir,” Marjorie said, “she does not understand politics. Lord Castlereagh’s note terrified her into doing the exact opposite of what he intended.”

“Has she debts?” asked the Earl. “Perhaps that might be a significant enough inducement. I cannot like children being used like this.”

“She does, though her housekeeping is so confused it is at present impossible to tell what they are,” said Wellington.

Lord Darcy shook his head. “That cannot be enough of an inducement. Thorpe will argue that as the husband is responsible for the pin money of the wife, he must likewise be responsible for her debts.”

“Dammit,” said Wellington, irritated. “I do not want my sons dragged into this any more than they have to be.”

“It does not suit my notions of right either, sir,” said Mr. Knightley. “I think we ought to send a note to Mr. Thorpe not referring to the children at all.”

Lord Darcy shook his head again. “Mark my words, gentlemen: custody will be the only arrow in your quiver. You will have to shoot it. I only know of one case where the mother was awarded custody in the past ten years, and that was because Sir George believed that Lord Byron’s soulmark was proof enough that his lordship had unnatural relations with his sister, and this made him an unfit guardian.”

“For all her faults,” said Marjorie, very gently, “the Duchess loves her children. If you grant her even winter hols she will probably agree to withdraw her first motion.”

The rest of the meal passed in discussing the details of this. Wellington was on edge, but did not like to show it, and was therefore as cool and as epigrammatic as he tended to be before a battle. Elizabeth, taking courage from this herself, at last overcame her embarrassment and pity enough to speak, or at least to offer a quip or two. Darcy spoke not at all. In the end, Wellington and Mr. Knightley, bolstered by the Earl and Lord Stornoway, who had surprisingly (to Elizabeth’s mind) strong feelings on the subject, decided to send their note without reference to the children at all.

“Well,” said Lord Darcy, “we shall see. I doubt you will get an answer tonight.”

However they did; just as Marjorie rose from the table, with a nod to Elizabeth, signifying they should leave the gentlemen to their port, there was a noise out in the vestibule. Marjorie went to look and reported that a well-bundled footman from Mr. Knightley’s house had come with a letter.

Mr. Knightley took the letter and broke open the seal as soon as Marjorie had sent the footman down to the kitchen to be given hot tea and cake. Mr. Knightly began to frown as he read on, and, when he reached the end he scowled outright. “Mr. Thorpe demands to know why I think he would be so foolish as to withdraw a motion that he has every expectation of seeing as part of the public record in the next se’enight.”

“I did warn you,” said Lord Darcy, leaning back in his chair and lacing his hands over his stomach.

Mr. Knightley passed the letter to Wellington and said, “I shall not blame you for being right, Lord Darcy,” while sounding as if he was doing exactly that.

Wellington was too angry for speech. He threw the letter on the table and stood to pace.

“A simple, ‘In exchange, His Grace is willing to negotiate custody of the children,’” said Lord Darcy. “That is all that is required.”

“I will not give up my children,” said Wellington.

“Not even for a week or two at Christmas or Easter?” Marjorie asked gently.

Wellington looked to Mr. Knightley and said, “I suppose Lord Darcy's suggestion is the only way forward but I refuse to grant her full custody. She spoils them, and favors such idle, frivolous pastimes that the boys scarcely have anything sensible to say when I am not asking their tutor to teach them something or other.” The mention of the tutor further incensed him, and he said, “Their tutor, ha! At least now I know why they are always playing spillikins by themselves instead of learning their times tables.”

Mr. Knightley nodded and, going to a desk for more paper, wrote a very terse reply.

The gentlemen were not long at their port, and conversation was so limited in subject and repetitive in nature that Marjorie and Elizabeth took to the piano. They usually sang comic duets together and, feeling this would be inappropriate for the general tone of the party, mangled their way through some four hand pieces that they really had intended to practice more than they actually had. Their little musical disasters produced a brief feeling of levity, until the handle turned on the door of the music room. There was collective feeling of a held breath, and Thomas appeared with a letter on a silver tray saying, “This from Mr. Knightley’s residence, madam.”

Marjorie rose and swiftly went to the door. “Thank you Thomas. Play remain outside the doors.”

“The fellow will listen in,” said Mr. Knightley, taking the letter from Marjorie and breaking open the seal.

“Better one servant knows the full story than all of them pieces of it,” said Marjorie.

“They request a few hours to consider,” said Mr. Knightley, not really hearing her.

Lord Darcy smiled, pleased to have been right.

“I shall write a note to Thorpe that I am dining here, and, with your permission, would be happy to speak with him in person here, or at his home. My children are all abed; I should not like to have their sleep disturbed two nights in a row.”

“We are of course happy to be of any help,” said Marjorie, with a cursory glance at Lord Matlock, to make sure this was acceptable.

Lord Matlock inclined his head. “Of course, sir. Anything we can do to bring this business to a quick end.”

“Shall I escort you home, uncle?” asked Darcy. It was the first time he had spoken in some hours; his desire to be gone had been apparent even to Stornoway, and it was with real relief that Darcy looked at the clock and observed, “It is now gone half-past ten.”

“I fear I must go before this riddle is worked out,” said Lord Darcy, levering himself with difficulty to his feet. “Matlock, I rely on you to send me a note first thing tomorrow, telling me how this business is ended.”

After the Darcys left, Marjorie and Lord Matlock fell to discussing politics, and Mr. Knightley and Lord Stornoway fell to discussing their children. Lord Stornoway was a doting father in the hour or so he saw his children every evening, before he dressed for dinner, and this, and the excellence of the governess Marjorie had hired, had given him a sense of having really the best children in London. Mr. Knightley politely disputed this claim, for he could not believe his children to be inferior to anyone on earth. They quite enjoyed their dispute as much as Marjorie and Lord Matlock did theirs, on Catholic emancipation.  

Elizabeth, still perched on the piano bench, caught Wellington’s eye and tried to offer an encouraging smile. He made a slight motion of his head, which Elizabeth took as an invitation to private conversation. She abandoned the instrument to come over to where he was standing, at the opposite end of the drawing room from the parlor, in a corner that could not be easily observed from the door, but was unfortunately far from the fire. Elizabeth picked up a Kashmir shawl, red with gold medallions, that she had loaned to Miss Duncan earlier, and which had been politely abandoned in the parlor so that Miss Duncan would not have to admit to having a very different taste in accessories to Mrs. Fitzwilliam.

After wrapping this snugly about herself, Elizabeth moved an armless chair to sit by Wellington. “I am sorry, sir, this must be a hellish night for you.”

He managed a flicker of a smile. “I have had many worse. To pass a night under attack like this almost makes me feel nostalgic. You almost look a redcoat in that.”

Elizabeth glanced at her shoulder, where one of the glittering ends of her shawl rested. “Epauletted and everything! Well it is fitting. This was a present from Colonel Fitzwilliam, from his time in India.”

Wellington pulled a second chair from a table, in order to face her. “I should like to know your take on all this, Mrs. Fitzwilliam. Do you think this will work?”

The other end of the shawl hung at her side; Elizabeth drew the fringe onto her lap and carded her fingers through it. “I do not know,” she admitted, after a moment. 

“What is your best guess, then?”

“If you shew yourself willing to accept her marrying Mr. Jackson, and even to be generous about it, she might accede to Mr. Knightley’s plan, for it will mean she achieve her primary object while eliminating the loss that caused her to begin proceedings in the first place. The chief concerns of her life are her children, and I have met enough loving mothers to know they would do just about anything for their children. This seems a very minor action in comparison to some of the maternal sacrifices I have witnessed, or history has preserved.” After a moment Elizabeth said, tentatively, “But I suppose a great deal depends on Mr. Thorpe and Mr. Jackson. Mr. Thorpe has no reason to withdraw his motion unless his clients insist upon it. If Mr. Jackson is equally fond of your children, I suppose he might agree… or if he understands that most of the Duchess’s happiness in recent years has been in her children, and acts to secure her happiness....”

Wellington was looking thoughtfully at his left wrist. “A lot of ‘if’s, eh?”

Elizabeth offered a half-smile and turned her attention back to her shawl. “You asked me to speak in the conditional, sir.”

“I ought to have overcome my pride,” said Wellington, “years ago. Or bent the rules of propriety and asked to compare our marks before marrying. In the past seven or eight years it’s become so normal a part of courtship. But I was sure— I was so very sure.”

“Why, sir?” Elizabeth asked. She had been turning this over in her mind, idly enough, since their conversation in the carriage; merely as a curious riddle, not as a consuming mystery.

Wellington looked at her thoughtfully and said, with the air of making a sudden decision, “Well! If Knightley doesn’t bring this off, you’ll know soon enough.”

“Your Grace?”

After glancing at the rest of the party, and seeing them engaged in some occupation or other, Wellington pulled back his sleeve to reveal rather an ugly armlet, of the sort that had been very briefly popular for men to wear ten years ago. “Kitty gave it me, as a wedding present,” he said, looking at it with a tense expression. He unclasped it. ‘Pakenham’ curled about his wrist.

“Oh sir,” said Elizabeth.

“You realize just why now, I was so set on Kitty?” he asked.

“Colonel Fitzwilliam’s mark said ‘Bennet.’ I understand your circumstances much better than you think.” She hesitated, and moved her evening bracelet up her wrist to look again at the ‘Fitzwilliam’ curling over the translucent skin of her wrist. “I know nothing I can say will be of the slightest use, but please believe that I feel for you exceedingly.”

“It was Ned,” he replied, abruptly. “I ought to have realized.”

“Your Grace?”

“Edward Packenham, Kitty’s brother. One of my dearest friends. The Pakenhams are a large family. It could have been any of ‘em— but I did— I was in love with Kitty. I thought it had to be her. I could not admit to being wrong. It was Ned’s friendship— not Kitty’s affection, which doesn't appear to have lasted long— that changed my life for the better. It refers to him.”

Elizabeth felt tears start to her eyes. Ned Pakenham had been killed in the Battle of New Orleans, just last January. She had known Wellington to be grief-stricken at the news, and to have been in an irascible temper for weeks thereafter, but had, like most of the officers and their wives, attributed this to the news of an American victory.

“I think we in England are overly exacting in our definition of a soulmate,” said Elizabeth. “Perhaps we are right in that it refers to some great love, but I do not think that love necessarily has to be romantic, or sexual. The Greeks after Plato said a soulmark ought to be the only outward sign of the greatest friendship of one’s life.”

“The Italians have it that your mark is the name of the person who will save your life. And so Ned did, at Bussaco, in ‘10, and he damned well saved the Battle of Salamanca for me. I never loved Ned as I did Kitty, but he was the best friend I had in this world.” Wellington looked hard at his mark, with the fixed stare and tense expression that he often got when hearing the lists of dead and wounded, of a man struggling to seem stoic when his overwhelming impulse was to weep. “I have but one consolation, when I think of his passing: that he died as he lived, in the honorable discharge of his duty, and as distinguished a soldier as a man. I could have wrung Sir Alexander Cochrane's neck myself when I heard a proper account of the action. Forcing Ned and his men to charge against an army in a fortified position without weakening the defenses at all! The Navy was damned useless.”

Elizabeth felt perilously moved. Without thinking, she gently laid the fingertips of her left hand on his bare left wrist.

Later, in the cool light of early morning, and in a much too empty bed, Elizabeth realized just how much her longing for her husband had fueled her actions, how in reaching for Wellington, she was still, somehow, trying to reach for Colonel Fitzwilliam, and reassure him a final time. Then too, was the less palatable realization that Elizabeth missed not just her marital duties, but the intimacy of being someone’s primary confidante and source of consolation. Here now was a handsome man, with a reputation for pleasing women and a decided preference for her society, an exact understanding of all she had been through and just how much she had lost in the death of her husband, baring his soulmark to her, and revealing to her a depth of private anguish he had revealed to no one else. She could not have pulled from her imagination anything more suited to her desires, as they now stood.

But in the moment she was only really aware that here was a friend in the very deepest pain, and she must do something about it. “A good death does not lessen the anguish of losing one’s soulmate. I know.”

He had looked at her in some surprise when she reached out for him, and touched him so intimately, but moved his hand to clasp hers, and managed something close to a smile. “It’s always in the little things, isn’t it, that make you realize quite how alone you now are.”

Elizabeth nodded. “Every time it seems one has mapped the full shape of the absence, it seems to expand.”

“One almost begins to fear it can never be mapped; never really fully understood.”

There came a knock at the door and they remained for a moment, with hands clasped, before Wellington squeezed her hand and rose, saying, with a slight smile, “Well my dear, if all else goes to hell, at least I’ve come out of this with someone with whom I can say literally anything and be understood. That is no small thing.”

“I said I would stand your friend, Your Grace,” said Elizabeth. “I always will.”


	4. In which Mrs. Fitzwilliam and Mrs. Willoughby duke it out

There was a collective sense of held breath as the door opened; Elizabeth glanced around the room to see all the rest of the party likewise nervous, in their ways.

Thomas the footman stepped in, and announced, “The Duchess of Wellington, Mr. Thorpe, and Mr. Jackson to see Mr. Knightley, Lord Matlock.”

Wellington withdrew a little, as he pulled down his sleeve. Elizabeth noticed he left the armlet on a side-table. It looked dingy and much battered; Elizabeth suddenly realized, with a stir of pity and exasperation, he had worn it through every campaign since he had been married.

“Uhm,” said Lord Matlock, frowning. “I suppose... put them... what parlors have fires, Lady Stornoway?”

“There is always a fire laid in your study in the evening, my lord,” said Marjorie.

“In my study please. Thomas, have Mark escort them there.”

Wellington raised his eyebrows at Mr. Knightley, as Thomas bowed and withdrew.

“Wait a moment, my lord,” said Mr. Knightley. “I shall send Thomas back for you if it is safe. But I really do not want you to be served papers when we almost have the settlement we want in hand.”

The Fitzwilliams attempted to distract His Grace, who, in turn, attempted to be calm and epigrammatic. They fortunately did not have long to wait; Thomas came back in ten minutes later, to report that he had been sent to find the Duke of Wellington, Mr. Thorpe having promised not to serve the papers. Mark, the other footman who had observed Wellington’s arrival, was still posted at the door and was not allowed to leave.

“And you must not be seen leaving the house and going to the Arbuthnots,” mused Marjorie. “Everyone thinks you have been with them all evening. Hm. Thomas, go over to the Arbuthnots. If the butler or any of the servants ask why you are there, tell them it has to do with the Duke of Wellington, but anything more and it will cost you your job. Ask to see Mr. And Mrs. Arbuthnot privately and pray inform them... what would you like them to know, Your Grace?”

“Tell them that I hope to have everything resolved by tomorrow, but until then, I beg them not to say anything to anybody.”

“Would you like them to say that you were with them all evening?” Lord Stornoway  asked.

“It is best to say as little as possible at present,” opined Wellington.

Marjorie sent Thomas out and said, “But— how now to get you from here to the drawing room, while convincing everyone you have only just arrived? Mr. Thorpe said _he_ would not serve you papers but I note he left out any mention of the clerks and copy-boys chasing you all over London.”

“There was a maidservant,” said Lord Stornoway, frowning a little. “But with the two footmen engaged....”

“Ah,” said Elizabeth. “This is a job for the Pattinsons.”

 

***

 

Both Pattinsons were surprised; Mrs. Pattinson by the sight of Elizabeth wearing a shawl that was not black (“I could have brought you a proper shawl any time, Madame,” she said reproachfully), and Mr. Pattinson by the more obvious reason of the Duke of Wellington’s being in the sitting room.

“None of us belowstairs knew Nose—” began Mr. Pattinson, before his wife elbowed him. “I mean, His Grace was here.”

Wellington was fortunately amused rather than otherwise. “You weren't intended to,” he replied. “Now that the Duchess and her lawyers are here, that I am supposed to be here. In fact, I need to be seen arriving here without being seen to leave. Copenhagen being in your stable creates some difficulty in that regard—”

“Not as such, Your Grace,” said Mr. Pattinson, after a moment. “Not if I might have a bottle of brandy, and the missus might have an apple or some sugar for the horse.”

“And some sacking for his hooves, your ladyship,” said Mrs. Pattinson, to Marjorie.

“I would ask if you had some experience sneaking horses out of stables, but as you are veterans of the Spanish Campaign, I might as well ask if you have experience beating the French.”

Both Pattinsons beamed.

“You shall have everything you need,” said Marjorie. “And I have an idea about His Grace— he cannot really go out of doors; one of Mr. Thorpe’s associates will probably be waiting to serve him papers. Pattinson, when you come back, I shall give you Lord Wellington’s cloak and bicorn; you must open the door and pretend to relieve His Grace of them.”

This worked out exactly as planned, which convinced Elizabeth that, in good old Army fashion, something was about to go wrong— which it did. Mark the footman returned looking vaguely embarrassed and saying, “Er— Her Grace the Duchess of Wellington burst into tears at the appearance of His Grace and is presently in hysterics.”

“Go fetch Mrs. Clark—” this was the housekeeper “—and tell her to take Her Grace somewhere quiet to drink a cup of tea and recover.” Marjorie considered this. “I am sorry to do it to you, Mrs. Fitzwilliam, but I think it must be your parlor. Aside from the bedrooms, the study, and this room, I doubt there are fires laid anywhere else.”

Mark bowed and departed.

The Earl turned to Marjorie saying, “Lady Stornoway, do you think the Duchess would feel more comfortable to have another lady with her, in this moment of distress?”

“Probably not me or Mrs. Fitzwilliam,” said Marjorie, dryly. “We are not... precisely good friends.”

The Earl frowned, “I thought she returned a visit of yours a few days ago.”

“In order to apologize for slighting Marjorie when she and Mrs. Fitzwilliam visited,” said Lord Stornoway, who had been almost more offended than Marjorie. “ _And_ Lady Wellington wasn’t even very sorry about it. Willoughby was just telling me at Brook’s this morning that Lady Wellington and Mrs. Willoughby and their set were being damned insufferable. Pardon my language. But it is well deserved. The nerve of the woman. As if she could hold a candle to you, my dear!”

A crease appeared between Marjorie’s delicately sculpted eyebrows. “What on earth could they have to complain about? Was it just me?”

“The Fitzwilliam women,” Lord Stornoway reported, in very clipped tones.

“Who do they include in that?” Marjorie asked. “Just me and Lizzy, I suppose?”

“Honoria and Miss Duncan too. Damned impertinence!”

Marjorie looked surprised, which did not happen often. “What is being said? I do not like to be caught unaware by an attack, and I cannot think of any insult that would apply to all four is us.”

“That with Sybil and Arabella gone off, the Fitzwilliam women were now quite disagreeable company, who always seemed to be mocking someone or something.”

“Generally them,” said Marjorie, _sotto voce,_ to Elizabeth. “So far they are not wrong.”

“They said Mrs. Fitzwilliam was quite wild,” Stornoway continued on, too angry to have heard this aside, “and not in the least a proper lady because of how she talked of all the dangers she faced when married to Richard, as if it were normal to be blowing up powder carts.”

“To me it is,” said Elizabeth, amused by this censure. She had never claimed to be an _elegante_ or a fine lady; merely a colonel’s wife. It was difficult to be offended by a statement that she herself agreed with.

“And they said Honoria was conceited about her unconventional lifestyle, and did she and Miss Duncan have to flaunt it so and look down on everyone who had some decorum, and that you, my dear—” to Marjorie “—were always scheming!”

“I _am_ a Spencer,” said Marjorie, mildly. “Of course I am. Really, those weren't even insults.”

“They just stated facts in a disagreeable way,” said Elizabeth. “For my part, I am perfectly content to think Mrs. Willoughby and her set find me bad company. I find _them_ bad company and would be very glad never to see any of them again.”

Lord Stornoway rarely got angry, but when he did, it was generally because someone had insulted Marjorie, and he wouldn't be soothed from it until everyone agreed with him on the superiority of his wife to all other women. “Said there were always double meanings to what she was saying,” he muttered, arms crossed. “My Marjorie! One of the sweetest women in society!”

Marjorie was at her sweetest when she was at her most scheming, but it didn't seem worth it to point this out.

The Earl’s eyebrows had been steadily rising towards his hairline at this recital. “And you just let Willoughby run on like this?”

“I was about to rake Willoughby over the coals for it, but he said he told his wife to stop being bitter that other women in London were cleverer than her and then she... brought up a clever female friend Mr. Willoughby really oughtn’t to have made, they quarrelled and he hid in Brook’s the rest of the day. I meant to tell you earlier, but...” He made a vague gesture, as if to try and encompass the whole of the Wellington divorce.

“I suppose we now know part of the reason why Mrs. Willoughby was involved,” said Marjorie. “Or, at least, why she played the very specific part she did.”

“What part?” asked the Earl.

“She secured the, ah... clever female friend of her husband’s as her second witness,” Marjorie said, delicately. “Harriette Wilson.”

The Earl pinched the bridge of his nose. “God save us. Far be it from me to tell a grown man how to live his life, but I cannot countenance courtesans.”

“They are so common,” said Stornoway, a little surprised by this.

“In both senses of the term, dear boy,” said the Earl, dryly. “I am very glad your mother insisted you all be raised high church. I will never fear any of my children being mired in scandal due to unsuitable... attachments. Even Honoria is as... respectable as she can be, given her... limitations.”

Marjorie clearly thought this absurd. Her own family was full of people taking on lovers at the slightest provocation. “Sir, I think the Fitzwilliams are quite... unparalleled in the faithfulness of their affections. There are few other great families where Harriette Wilson’s influence is not felt. The announcement of her memoirs seems to have sent most of London into a tizzy.”

“After this Wellington better give up courtesans,” said Stornoway. “You are right, father, common is as common does; when one has a title, one must conduct oneself with a higher degree of delicacy.” Stornoway had only a few certainties, to which he clung with resolute tenacity; he otherwise tended to pick up the opinions of others around him as if they were his own.

Marjorie was not above using this. “The prevalence of a sin I think lessens the offense a little. Sunday travel is a sin, and yet it happens, and often out of necessity.”

“Oh yes, of course,” agreed Stornoway immediately. “That is— having discovered just how dim and disagreeable the Duchess of Wellington really is, if she can say such stupid things about Marjorie and fail to realize they are wrong, I understand the fellow cannot get what he wants at home, but he would do better to reform his... rakishness? Is that a word?”

“Yes my dear,” said Marjorie.

“Right. Leave off the fancy pieces and pick a good woman to manage him.” This, having provided Lord Stornoway with all his current felicity, was his invariable answer to any man’s problems.

“Julian, to say such things in front of your wife and your brother’s widow,” said the Earl, chidingly.

“I hear worse from cousin Caro, my lord,” said Marjorie, with a laugh. “Really, sir, you must not think either of us easily offended. And you must forgive me for supporting my husband, but I think Stornoway has the right of this situation.”

Stornoway looked gratified, and raised his eyebrows at his father.

“It is only right a wife should be in accord with her husband,” said the Earl, struggling with himself. “But really, my dear Lady Stornoway—”

Marjorie persisted, very sweetly, “Oh, my preference is always for there to be perfect accord between husband and wife, but that is not possible in the current circumstances, and a man in Wellington’s position cannot be too careful. My dear husband is quite right— His Grace should content himself to a single, discreet liaison with a trusted friend, instead of all this roguery. It is the closest possible solution to the ideal.”

“Exactly,” said Stornoway. “Matter of national security and all, but still. A man has needs. Get ‘em met safely, I say.”

Elizabeth was both relieved and sorry not to see her father-in-law’s reaction to this, as Thomas opened the door and said, “Begging your pardon, my lord, but Mrs. Clark is having no success calming Her Grace.

Marjorie apologized to Elizabeth with a speaking glance before asking, “Tell Mrs. Clark Mrs. Fitzwilliam and I would be happy to attend to her. If she would rather not see me or Mrs. Fitzwilliam, we can send Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s maid. Or mine, if Mademoiselle is feeling a little better.”

After Thomas bowed and left, Stornoway recalled the Duchess of Wellington’s many offences against Marjorie and said, “I wish you would set your lady’s maid to waiting on Lady Wellington. It would serve Her Ladyship right to be sneezed on and coughed at.”

“I am not sure Mademoiselle Gautier would be quite so happy to be volunteered,” said Elizabeth. “But she _is_ French, perhaps she might like to get some kind of revenge against a Wellington.”

“My dear, she is more of a Royalist than actual royalty,” said Marjorie. “I think she must shudder when she gets up in the mornings, at having to work in a Whiggish household.”

But, in any case, the Duchess was in such hysterics she begged Lady Stornoway and Mrs. Fitzwilliam to attend her. Mrs. Clark, in turn, begged Mrs. Fitzwilliam to please tell her where the laudanum had been moved in the stillroom, and for the favor of Lady Stornoway’s hartshorn.

Elizabeth was at first surprised that Lady Stornoway possessed such an item, but Marjorie said, “Whenever I am increasing, I am never nauseous— only subject to sudden dizzy spells. A wretched business, I think, but my sisters all say that I should be grateful I merely faint in the middle of dinners instead of having to rush out of the room to be sick. Thomas, go fetch some tea. Mrs. Fitzwilliam and I will be in shortly.”

Once they had acquired their various objects, they paused before the door and looked at each other.

“I admit,” said Elizabeth, “I am really not very skilled in hiding my feelings from people I dislike, or who have so recently insulted me.”

“I am,” said Marjorie. “I know I ask the impossible of you, but please, dear sister— try to bite your tongue and just agree to anything I say.”

Elizabeth grimaced, amusingly enough to make Marjorie snort.

The Duchess of Wellington was in rather a pitiable state, which made Elizabeth less inclined to chuck the bottle of laudanum at her head and leave. Her Grace had collapsed on a chaise-longue in floods of tears, clearly inconsolable, and repeated to herself, “I never meant to be such trouble, I never meant any of this!”

The housekeeper was sitting by Her Grace in great perplexity, patting her hand and repeating “there, there,” every few seconds. Marjorie and Elizabeth went to sit on the sofa by the fire, and the tea service. Elizabeth moved automatically to pour out. “Your Grace, how do you take your tea?”

The Duchess looked somewhat wildly in Elizabeth's direction and said, in aggrieved tones, “Mrs. Fitzwilliam, you must not think I would ever do anything to hurt Arthur. You must not.”

“I know you did not mean to intentionally,” Elizabeth said, trying for a neutral tone.

“We are not soulmates, but I loved him,” said the Duchess, “and worried over him very constantly.”

“No one could doubt you on that,” said Marjorie, soothingly. “We have some laudanum if tea will not suffice, Your Grace.”

“I have always seen him in my mind protected by a transparent, impenetrable, adamantine shield, and settled that he could not be _even touched_ ,” said Lady Wellington, very fervently. “He is to me always safe from injury, from all harm.”

Marjorie looked at Elizabeth as if to ask if this was standard military issue.

Elizabeth hoped that the Duchess was too nearsighted to make out her expression. She was hard put to think of a more asinine statement, and the retort, ‘I am sure his being behind the bulk of his armies, surrounded by aide-de-camps at all times had nothing to do with it,’ was peppery on her tongue. But she swallowed this and made tea for herself and for Marjorie.

“He is not injured by this,” the Duchess said to herself, as if trying to convince herself this was true. “He cannot be— and I— oh, but I never meant any of this. I meant only....” She looked deeply miserable as she said, “It was only that he meant to take my children.”

Marjorie gracefully rose and mixed a cup of tea. She added two drops of laudanum and said, “Tea with laudanum, Your Grace. It will help you.”

The Duchess obediently drank and said, quietly, “Thank you.”

To Elizabeth’s surprise, Marjorie said, “It’s quite alright. I have sons myself, Your Grace, and daughters too. I would kill a man in cold blood before seeing any of them taken from me. It is the instinct of mothers, to strike at anyone who would wrest our children from us. Even if they are the fathers of said children.”

The housekeeper took the empty teacup from the Duchess, and put a clean handkerchief in her hand instead. The Duchess wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and said, “I hope you understand, Your Ladyship— I — I did not mean... if it had not been for that.”

“I do,” said Marjorie, pulling a chair over to the Duchess’s chaise-longue. “I know you disdain politics, Your Grace, but let me tell you the most valuable lesson I have learnt from it: the best solution to a problem is one in which everyone wins. If only a little.” She paused, but, unable to gauge the effect of her words while the Duchess’s face was buried in a handkerchief, said merely, “My advice is kindly meant. Whatever our disagreements or differences, I hope you will believe that.”

After a moment, the Duchess raised her face and said, “I cannot think— oh I am so wretched. I do not wish to lose my children.”

“Then agree to settle on Mr. Knightley’s terms,” said Marjorie, gently. “You will obtain all you desire and be done with this wretched business, with a minimum of scandal.”

Elizabeth rather thought the best thing she could do was stay silent and hope Lady Wellington forgot she was there. She sipped her tea and listened to Marjorie continue on in this vein, soothingly, laying out each step as a series of small, comprehensible actions, easily taken.  

Marjorie was frank without being offensive, calmly pragmatic, and remarkably persuasive. It was some doing to get Lady Wellington calm enough to move past the misery of her situation; she was mired in her own circle of hell. But Marjorie was a blue velvet-clad Virgil, skillful and well-spoken, and within a quarter of an hour, Lady Wellington was calm enough to go back into the study, where— according to Mr. Knightley, she entered saying that she was quite ready to settle. Mr. Thorpe tried to press her, but at the sight of the Duchess’s very real distress, her soulmate Mr. Jackson immediately agreed that they would settle according to Mr. Knightley's plan. If putting his mark on the public record meant his beloved might have her children for a fortnight at Christmas, and (after Mr. Thorpe and Mr. Knightley argued for quite half an hour) a month in the summer, he would do it. The preliminary agreements were signed, various footmen and copyboys dispatched, and a room at Matlock House prepared for His Grace, the Duke of Wellington.

Mr. Knightley remained long enough to acquaint the Fitzwilliams with all the particulars and to add that His Grace must appear at the divorce courts as soon as they opened the next morning.

Wellington, looking exhausted, paused on the stairs before going up to his room saying, “Lady Stornoway— I don’t doubt for a minute that this victory, Pyrrhic as it was, would have been an unquestionable defeat, if it hadn’t been for you. And Mrs. Fitzwilliam.”

“Mostly Lady Stornoway,” demurred Elizabeth.

Lady Stornoway laughed. “Oh, Your Grace, we Fitzwilliams have already paid the highest cost possible for peace in Europe. This was nothing in comparison.” She paused, delicately, like a dancer waiting for a cue, and then said, “And, speaking of the poor colonel— there is our bill to establish the Royal Army Medical Corps....”

“Once all this is settled,” said Wellington, “I shall be a tireless campaigner on your behalf.”

“It is most appreciated, Your Grace,” said Marjorie.

His Grace bowed to Stornoway and the Earl, who came out of the study to bid him goodnight, and then went up to bed at once. Marjorie linked arms with Elizabeth and turned to her, saying, with as much drama as a heroine in a Drury Lane melodrama, “There. All proceeds according to my dastardly plan!”

“What plan is that?” asked Elizabeth.

“My plan,” said Marjorie, overdramatically still, “to win Wellington to the Whigs.”

They had all been too tense for too long. Elizabeth, the Earl, and Stornoway all laughed, and somewhat alarmed Thomas, the footman on duty.

“Since Pitt is gone, we have no great men on our side,” said Marjorie, playfully. “I cannot let the stories have Wellington. You know I only think of the good of the party— and the advancement of my family within it.”

“More an antique Roman than a modern Englishwoman, my Marjorie,” said Stornoway, fondly, though it was clear he had not entirely understood the quotation he had chosen to deploy.

The Earl said, smiling, “I suppose I ought to be offended I am no great man in your estimation, my dear daughter, but I know I am a party workhorse, not one of its shining lights. You did extremely well this evening— as did you Mrs. Fitzwilliam— and I think we shall reap the benefits of this evening for many years to come... if we can get through this week first.”

 

***

 

Elizabeth slept late and stumbled down to breakfast in a black wool gown with long sleeves and a high standing collar, and a thick black knitted shawl. She hadn’t even bothered to curl her hair (Mrs. Pattinson had merely pulled her hair into a series of easy braids and pinned them up under a black lace cap) or put on any jewelry, and felt aggressively shoddy.

Wellington was at the table as fine as ever. Elizabeth did not understand how he could be so continually well dressed. Marjorie, of course, was turned out very fine as well, in a white cambric walking gown with one of the Elizabethan-esque ruffs now in fashion, clasped at the base of the throat with jet, bound under the breasts and about the wrists with black crepe ribbon. The only sign she was perhaps a little more tired than usual was the fact that her brown hair was caught up in a wide black bandeau instead of being more formally dressed. Though Marjorie did not need to be in half-mourning (six months, three of which had to be in black, was all that was expected for a brother-in-law), Elizabeth and the Earl had shewn so little inclination to put off their blacks, and Lord Stornoway and Honoria had so shied away from any hint of color in their wardrobes, that Marjorie limited herself to white trimmed with black, various purples, and grays, with the occasional hopeful foray into a dark blue.

“Good morning, Lizzy,” said Marjorie, pouring her a cup of tea.

“Is everyone else already up and facing the day?” Elizabeth asked, with a yawn. “I cannot fathom how, if so.”

“Habit, mostly,” said Marjorie. “At least, for our august father-in-law, who has so many letters to answer this morning he has locked himself in his study, and is dictating responses to his secretary. None of the younger generation are yet up.”

“I am glad not to be an outlier,” said Elizabeth, setting the tea cup at her usual place, on Marjorie’s right.

Wellington was at Marjorie’s left, and had several papers before him; he looked up from these to say, “I am glad you can take comfort in statistics, my dear; so few women do.”

“I think if we were taught more mathematics than merely how to balance accounts, we might,” said Elizabeth. She lifted various covers off the dishes on the sideboard, still feeling rather more tired than hungry, and ended up settling for a toast rack and a pot of marmalade.

Marjorie added, “Lady Byron’s quite the princess of parallelograms, I’m told, and has already begun teaching her daughter algebra.”

“Anything to keep her from turning as poetical as her father,” said Wellington, dryly.

Elizabeth finished her tea and passed back her cup for a second. “Any news yet, Your Grace?”

“Only what we insisted be put in it last evening,” said Wellington, tossing _The Times_ across the table to Elizabeth. “I am impressed they managed to get it in morning edition; they must have worked their typesetters to exhaustion to get it set and fitted in with the other announcements. I do not think Mr. Thorpe sent his copy boys with the news until ten or eleven, at least.”

Inserted in that morning’s paper was a wedding announcement:

_Lately, Timothy Jackson, Esq. son of Dr. and Mrs. Jackson, Harley Street, to Catherine Pakenham Wellesley, former Duchess of Wellington, daughter of Lord and Lady Longford, and lately of Apsley House, London. Sir Arthur Wellesley, first Duke of Wellington, of Apsley House, London, and Cambrai, France, has stepped aside like a Gentleman, at proof of this True Match._

“It is... very delicately put,” said Elizabeth, glancing up from the paper.

Wellington raised his eyes from _The Courier_ with a lip quirk of a smile. “Diplomatically put. Mr. Knightley was kind enough to argue for ‘like a gentleman,’ with remarkable skill. I daresay it will blunt the worst of the blows. Here it is in _The Courier_ , too. We shall see more tomorrow, no doubt.”

Elizabeth set down her toast and read the announcement again in _The Courier._ “Well, Your Grace, now I know why you look fine as five pence so early in the morning after so late a night.”

Taking out his pocket watch, Wellington said, “It is true I was up at dawn to go to the divorce courts, at which point the happy couple skipped off to St. George’s with a special license— though God alone knows how they managed to procure one— it is now gone eleven, Mrs. Fitz. I hardly call it early.”

“I suppose I am merely unused to late hours now,” she replied. “I can hardly go to balls, and most evenings I am abed well before midnight. I suppose....”

The click of the lid of Wellington’s pocket watch, as it closed, was a brisk, final sound; Wellington added to this a curt, “They are married and I am once again a bachelor now. A very quick action all told. I wish the Spanish had moved with as much dispatch on the Peninsula.”

Stornoway came in then, looking awkward. He kissed Marjorie on the cheek, took his tea and then said, uncomfortably, “Er... Your Grace.”

“Yes?” asked Wellington.

“Pa’s said— that is, my father, the Earl of Matlock, has said that this week will be the difficult one. We are happy to do everything in our power to assist you, but, er....” He set his cup down on the table and gripped the back of Marjorie’s chair for reassurance.

Marjorie turned to Wellington. “Your Grace, what would you like us to say, on your behalf? Or would you prefer we just take the knocker of the door and refuse to see anyone?”

“I would appreciate it if you were not at home to callers today,” he replied. “I know any longer will be impossible. But my sons have not yet been informed of all the arrangements. With one thing and another I did not feel up to explaining the circumstances to them this morning. I should like to have them hear from myself and their mother... and I suppose now their stepfather—” this last spoken rather grouchily “—before anyone else hears of what happens. I understand you will have to write to Lord Darcy.”

“I can always send Mrs. Fitzwilliam,” Marjorie offered, “if you prefer not to have anything set to paper. One cannot be too careful.”

“Mrs. Fitzwilliam is happy to be sent,” said Elizabeth, stifling a yawn, “if she is not required to be clever, or to speak to anyone else. Mrs. Fitzwilliam had planned to spend the day being idle and not at home to visitors.”

“Mrs. Fitzwilliam will of course be granted that,”’ said Marjorie, in the same, half-joking tone. Then she turned to Wellington and said, seriously, “I... I sympathize a great deal, sir. Breaking news of any change to one’s family is so... so difficult with children. I think perhaps the hardest moment in my life was explaining to my children why their Uncle Richard did not come home.” She looked at the teapot in her hands, cleared her throat, and said, in a voice a little lower than usual, “It is a hard thing, explaining... loss to a child, when one has done everything in one’s power to keep one’s child from ever knowing a moment’s pain.”

Elizabeth looked at her plate, feeling low, and trying not to give into it.

Stornoway said, sympathetically, “Dashed rough, Your Grace. I do not know what I would do in such a situation.”

Elizabeth thought but did not say, ‘You do not know what to do in most situations, Julian.’

Wellington managed a sort of bruque gallantry by saying, “Fortunately, you never will be.”

“But what is to be said?” Elizabeth asked, still fighting off lowness. “Shall we merely repeat what the newspapers say?”

“To Lord Darcy I hope you will give the unvarnished truth,” he replied. “To everyone else... I should like to tell them all to go to the devil.”

“How I wish sometimes that were a viable response for ladies to give,” said Marjorie, looking droll. “But, sir, if you give Mrs. Fitzwilliam and I leave to let drop a few details or other, you can tell as many people to go to the devil as you please and not be questioned further.” She handed Wellington another cup of tea and said, “Perhaps sir, you might agree to this: that last evening, we had our cousins the Darcys over for dinner, and invited Mr. Knightley to entertain His Lordship. While Mr. Knightley was here, he found himself obliged to conduct some business on your behalf and... should you like Lord Darcy’s involvement to be known?”

“I cannot see how it is to be avoided.”

“Ah. Then Lord Darcy gave him some advice perhaps. Let us say... over the port? That way Mrs. Fitzwilliam and I will not be expected to know every detail of the negotiations. Mr. Knightley sent a note, Mr. Thorpe rushed over here to negotiate, along with his clients. You were summoned from the Arbuthnots, and then everyone was holed up in Lord Matlock’s study. I do not think the new Mrs. Jackson is wise enough to keep her mouth shut, so Mrs. Fitzwilliam and I will have to admit going to comfort her, and talk some sense into her about negotiating custody.”

Wellington made a noise indicative of his agreement, though whether this was to the plan or to the mild insult to the former Duchess of Wellington, Elizabeth knew not.

Marjorie continued, “So... soon thereafter the business was concluded, with the divorce and marriage the next morning. My lord Wellington, I assume that the Jacksons will be staying at Apsley House?”

“It was part of the terms,” said Wellington, not sounding terrifically pleased with this.

“I beg you will continue to accept our hospitality, until you can once again call your home your own,” said Marjorie. “Our servants do not talk, and the ones who know have been well paid— well, the Pattinsons must have their due. I shall ask for them to be sent to my parlor, if that will be acceptable to you, Mrs. Fitzwilliam.”

Elizabeth had been finishing off her tea and hastily set down her cup. “Oh! Yes. I gave them five shillings each this morning, a gesture which I think rather offended them. Mrs. Pattinson quite took me to task for thinking any infantryman would need to be paid to serve General Wellington.”

“They often did, in Spain,” said Wellington.

Marjorie reached for Elizabeth’s empty tea cup and suggested, “They might have protested to please your sense of what is right, Lizzy. I think my giving them a pound apiece would not go amiss. Stornoway—”

“Ah yes.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out several crumpled bills. “Here you are, my dear. And I really do think you ought to buy yourself something for all the work you did yesterday.”

“I cannot go out today,” said Marjorie, taking the bank notes with pleasure, “but thank you my dear. I think Mrs. Fitzwilliam and I _must_ be seen shopping tomorrow. It is the fastest way for us to give out the correct version of events.”

Marjorie was quite right. The next morning they went to Miss Sandbourne’s, a bootmaker selected because she could use the business. Her custom had dropped off dramatically after she had made official her partnership with her soulmate, a curate’s daughter. It was a cross-class partnership that Marjorie and Elizabeth still felt a little awkward about, though they both wished they did not. The difference between a landed gentleman’s daughter and a gentleman commoner (i.e. a younger son of an Earl) was great, but not so great as to preclude the idea of their being equal partners. Only the highest sticklers (‘like Mr. Darcy,’ Elizabeth often joked) had been convinced Colonel and Mrs. Fitzwilliam were not a true match, on the basis of their class.

The gulf between gentry (even gentry at the low end of the scale, like a mere curate) and artisan (even very talented or successful ones) was enormous. It had been almost unthinkable to Elizabeth, but Marjorie seemed vexed there was any unconventional partnership she could not accept, and was determined to force herself over this hurdle. To Miss Sandbourne’s, they went.

Miss Sandbourne was very eager to see them; she sat them in comfortable chairs in the bow window, and gave them tea, while rushing off herself to find the boots Elizabeth was ostensibly there to pick up and pay for.

“Are you quite ready?” Marjorie asked, glancing out the window. “We shall be seen in a few minutes; we are too close to Bond Street to escape notice.”

Elizabeth took a fortifying sip of tea. “I have been in worse battles.”

“I doubt it,” said Marjorie, raising her eyebrows. “The Wellington divorce will be _the_ scandal of the season. Every rumor will be chased down by our friends and enemies like a rabbit by a pack of greyhounds. We are directly involved. We will be hounded, and hounded tenaciously. If you cannot manage it, my dear, speak now.”

“There is a stubbornness about me that can never bear to be frightened at the will of others,” said Elizabeth. “Though I hope you will not mind if I stick close to you, at least at first, until I am confident I can mount as flawless a defense as you do.”

“I would take it as a very great compliment if you did,” said Marjorie. The shop door opened; the bell rang. “Here’s Mrs. Willoughby. Of course.” She set down her cup and turned to Mrs. Willoughby with affected surprise.

“Here are your boots, Mrs. Fitzwilliam,” said Miss Sandbourne, laying the boots before Elizabeth, before seeing Mrs. Willoughby and looking rather shocked. “Can— can I help you, madame?”

“I only came in to say hello to Lady Stornoway,” said Mrs. Willoughby, quickly.

“Oh no, while you are here, you _must_ look at Miss Sandbourne’s _charming_ selection,” cried Marjorie. “She does a nankeen galoshed with black that looks very fine. And a very sturdy walking boot.”

“Yes, I see she has made some very thick ones for Mrs. Fitzwilliam!” Mrs. Willoughby eyed the black leather half-boots Elizabeth was currently lacing on. Elizabeth fought the urge to roll her eyes. She had never liked nor understood Mrs. Willoughby, who was jealous of her dignity and position in all things, even footwear.

Mrs. Willoughby let out an unpleasant titter. “Oh my dear, you look as if you could run a farm in those!”

“I ran a temporary field hospital at Waterloo in a similar pair,” said Elizabeth, not raising her eyes from her boots.

Marjorie hid a smirk behind her teacup.

Mrs. Willoughby was temporarily rendered silent; Lady Jersey came fluttering in, and filled up the silence before it became awkward with a distracted, “Oh Marjorie _darling_ — have you heard...? But of course you heard, the negotiations took part at your house— Mrs. Fitzwilliam my dear, hello, what lovely boots! So elegantly cut, but they look as if they will not fall to pieces as soon as you take them out in the rain— but in black? Oh my dear, I hope soon you will go into half-mourning— think how pretty those would look under a white gown with black trimmings— Mrs. Willoughby, hello! I did not see you at Almack’s last evening, everyone was looking for you! And you too, Marjorie— oh but my dear, what can you tell me about everything that happened between the Duke and the former Duchess? Can you believe the Duchess is married again already?”

Marjorie managed to cut off this torrent of loquaciousness by asking for a cup of tea for Lady Jersey. Miss Sandbourne went at once to fetch this, leaving her two astonished shop assistants to find enough chairs for everyone and distractedly attend Elizabeth. As soon as Lady Jersey had her tea, Marjorie launched into a rather laconic version of the agreed upon story, with many a significant look at Mrs. Willoughby whenever she mentioned the new Mrs. Jackson.

“Mrs. Jackson is very happy with her true match,” said Mrs. Willoughby stiffly.

“Yes, His Grace very gallantly recognized the fact and stepped aside not two days after the news was sprung upon him, after he was visiting some veterans by Hampstead Heath.”

“I understand Widow Fitzwilliam was there as well?” Mrs. Willoughby asked, a little snidely.

“Every Tuesday the widow Fotheringay holds a tea for all of us veterans and war widows,” said Elizabeth, pretending to be absorbed in the mirror before her. She twitched her skirts out of the way to study the look of the boots with an air that insinuated that the fit of her boots was the most absorbing problem on her mind that morning.

“Yes, my dear sister-in-law goes nearly every week.” Marjorie spotted the Countess Lieven out the window and nodded cordially, before turning to Mrs. Willoughby again, saying, “I think it was only the unmannerliness of the attack which raised His Grace’s ire. As soon as he situation was explained to him, he stepped aside very graciously. Why, he even allowed the newlyweds to stay at Apsley House!”

“His Grace is presently staying with you, I believe?” Mrs. Willoughby asked.

“Us and the Arbuthnots,” said Marjorie serenely.

“Split between Whig and Tory,” observed the Countess Lieven, intrigued, before scattering distracted greetings over them all.

“The stable balance of power abroad is a bipartisan issue,” said Marjorie. “As is healthcare for the military. Speaking of which—”

Marjorie managed to turn discussion from the Wellington divorce to the Earl of Matlock’s bill in every subsequent conversation as well, which Elizabeth marveled at and could not quite manage to emulate. They spent nearly two hours in the shop, before Marjorie was satisfied and decided they would return home.

“Tell me, dear Lady Stornoway,” asked the Countess of Lieven, tucking her arm into Marjorie’s, leaving Elizabeth to trail somewhat awkwardly behind with Thomas the footman, who carried her and Marjorie’s purchases, “was your dinner with Lord Darcy a long standing one?”

“Oh I can scarcely recall,” said Marjorie, breezily. “We have all been at sixes and sevenses.”

The Countess Lieven flicked her gaze back to Elizabeth, who raised her eyebrows in a way that could be read as innocent inquiry, or smiling defiance.

“And it really was ingenious, this idea of using Mr. Jackson’s soulmark instead of His Grace’s,” said the Countess.

“Indeed it was,” agreed Marjorie. “Dear Lord Darcy said he expected to see Mr. Knightley a judge someday.”

“And so quickly arranged... and Kitty so quickly persuaded....”

Marjorie smiled like a sphinx. Elizabeth could not imitate it and instead looked arch when the Countess Lieven turned a very shrewd gaze back on her.

“Hm,” said the Countess Lieven, speculatively. Then, after a moment, she smiled and said, “Game, set, match. Well done.”

 

***

 

Though Elizabeth had spent most of the previous day sleeping when she was not talking with Lord Darcy, or trying to explain all that had occurred to Honoria and Miss Duncan, she felt exhausted; only the knowledge that she must write _something_ to Jane of the Wellington divorce kept her awake after dinner.

But she felt stupid with tiredness. She managed only the date before experiencing a profound writer’s block. Elizabeth glanced around the room. All the others were rather subdued as well. Marjorie, tired, but happy, was flipping through _La Belle Assemblée_ , Miss Duncan was sketching in the corner, Honoria, Stornoway, and Matlock were at cards, and Wellington was looking annoyed at the growing pile of letters an apologetic footman was stacking before him on an end table.

Elizabeth propped her chin in her hand. “Oh good God, sir.”

“That about covers it,” said Wellington, irritably sorting through the stacks. “I don’t recognize half the hands here. Who are all these people? Wait, this one—” he picked it up and broke the seal. “Hm.”

“Bad news?”

The Duke of Wellington looked over the letter impatiently and said, “Mrs. Fitzwilliam, may I borrow your pen?”

“Of course,” she replied, passing it over. “I am at a loss as to what to write to my sister Mrs. Bingley, any road. To whom do you write, sir?”

“Someone you ought not to know,” he replied dryly. “In fact, someone _I_ ought not to know.” Elizabeth glanced at the letter; at the top of it he had written, very clearly, “Publish and be damned.”

At the bottom was a curling, ‘Harriette Wilson.’

“Sir,” said Elizabeth, startled and exasperated, “after all the trouble we went through to stabilize the balance of power in Europe—”

“My dear, have you not heard?”

She felt suddenly jolted awake. “Oh God, it hasn't got out...?”

“No, my dear, good news. By order of the Prince Regent, it is treasonous to print or otherwise publicly reveal the soulmark of any member of the government. Harriette will flirt with danger, but she will not court treason.”

“And so,” said Elizabeth, having some trouble getting over her exasperation, “you decide to jump into the cage and bait the tiger?”

“Rattle the bars on its cage, rather,” he replied.

“I expect I shall see you like Tipu Sultan’s redcoat?”

“My dear, I haven't the pleasure of understanding you.”

“Colonel Fitzwilliam showed it to me once,” she said, “at the East India House. I think it is actually called Tipu’s Tiger; it is an automan of a tiger eating a red coat. If you wind it up the redcoat groans. I am very surprised you do not know of it, since it was one of the treasures your elder brother seized, when he was Governor General of India.” She took back the pen and tried to mark a sketch of the automaton, with very little success.

Wellington came to stand beside her, leaning his forearm on the back of her chair. “And what is that large blob overlapping that smaller blob?”

“It is a tiger,” Elizabeth protested, pointing the end of her pen at some horizontal slashes. “See, it has stripes.”

“I thought you were crossing out the part of the drawing of which you were most ashamed.”

“Fie, Your Grace, I am very proud of my creation.”

He leaned over her shoulder to better examine it. “I cannot fathom why.”

“ _I_ cannot help it if you do not recognize considerable artistic genius when you see it.”

“I have sat for Goya and Lawrence,” said Wellington, “and been roundly abused by David, for having the tenacity to inquire after a portrait. I am tolerably well acquainted with the artistic geniuses of our era.”

“Male artists,” sniffed Elizabeth, with false hauteur. “We women must launch into....” She examined the crossed-out series of blobs that was her tiger, chewing on a stick-figure redcoat that unfortunately appeared to be grinning toothily at his vague and ill-formed fate, instead of grimacing, as had been Elizabeth’s original intent. “Non... figurative... representational art.”

“How behind the times I am!”

“Terribly, so, sir!” She shook her head. “Where would you be without me?”

“Past Point Non-Plus, my dear,” he said, smiling at her a little.

She looked up at him, and asked, “Then, sir, will you be lead by me again? Do not send that response to Miss Wilson.”

“I shall sleep on the decision,” Wellington conceded. “I am perhaps not in the best temper to be fighting a new campaign against Miss Wilson. It was… difficult, leaving the boys today.” At Elizabeth’s quizzical look he explained, “I have only afternoons with them. As part of the settlement, the Jacksons shall be in Apsley House, with the boys, until we have managed to sort out any financial obligations I shall have towards Kitty. I left my sons in rather a wretched state today.”

Elizabeth looked her sympathy.

He forced a smile. “Well. There are consolations. I confess to a very unkind pleasure in hearing Charles scream, ‘You are not my _real_ father!’ at Mr. Jackson just as I was leaving Apsley House. I wish the Jacksons every joy of settling Charles down for bed after _that_ opening salvo.”

 

***

 

Sunday, with the half-holiday given to the servants, where they could get away with receiving no one, brought the Fitzwilliams a brief afternoon of rest; but Monday brought political cartoons.

Elizabeth came down to breakfast to see Wellington had commandeered most of the table to lay out all the sheets his friends and enemies had sent him.

“I am surprised it took them three days to get to my divorce,” said Wellington, sipping tea with utmost _sang-froid_. “Though Fitzroy—-” his favorite aide-de-campe, and, as of last year, his nephew “—-told me some of them came in Saturday’s post, which I did not open. I wish my armies could move as quickly as these engravers do.”

Elizabeth picked up a political cartoon of what she supposed was Wellington (one could tell by the nose) dressed as King Arthur, riding off into the sunset on Copenhagen, leaving Mr. Jackson-as-Lancelot and Kitty-as-Guinevere kissing in the castle, entitled, ‘True Nobility.’

“This is not as bad as I had imagined,” said Elizabeth, setting it down, and reaching for the teapot. In doing so, she disturbed a less kind cartoon on the same Arthurian theme. This had Wellington jumping up and down, waving his fists in the air,and cursing, as Lancelot, facing away from the viewer, raced off with Guinevere. Wellington-as-Arthur had a balloon extending from his mouth full of ‘d—-’s, ‘f—’s and ‘you b—’s. Kitty-as-Guinevere looked over her shoulder, looking sly. The title of this was ‘Sir Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, nobly steps aside, like a Gentleman.’

Elizabeth fortified herself with tea before looking through the rest.

A third featured the Duke of Wellington, surrounded by grateful veterans, his back to the viewer, with Mr. Jackson in the guise of Napoleon, Kitty thrown over his shoulder, with a speech bubble reading, “This is how one Steals a March on the Duke of Wellington!”

Another entitled ‘Amor vanquit omines,’ had Mr. Jackson in the guise of rescuer, carrying Kitty away in his arms, with Wellington’s looming shadow in the background.

A fifth took against Kitty, and was crude enough Elizabeth turned red and said, “Your Grace, I am throwing this into the fire. I cannot believe anyone dared to print something this awful!”

“Hm,” he said, leaning over to examine it. “The engraver took significant liberties.”

This one was, of course, the one the Earl saw her holding when he too made it down from breakfast. Elizabeth hastily declared she was about to throw the engraving into the fire.

“That is the only place for it,” agreed the Earl. “In times like these I miss Billy the most.”

“Billy, sir?” Elizabeth asked, happily watching the cartoon burn.

“The late Mr. Pitt,” replied the Earl, taking his usual seat at the head of the table. “I was... uncertain about his gagging laws back in the ‘90s but I really think there are few things as poisonous as the British press. Oh damn my eyes, is this us?”

He held up a cartoon with a large number of people in black, with hairstyles roughly equivalent to those of all the Fitzwilliams at Matlock House, hastening to put out a fire in what was the engraver’s best guess at the chateau of Hougoumont. The engraver had helpfully labeled the chateau as ‘Wellington’s Reputation.’

Wellington, holding another that featured an enormous powdered wig hiding his eyes and balanced on his unkindly exaggerated nose, entitled, ‘To Hide Behind the _Whigs_ is Now the _General_ Fashion,’ said, “Oh yes, sir. I do not think they did justice to Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s fine eyes, there, but Lady Stornoway is quite recognizably herself.”

The Earl was too busy scowling at the cartoon to answer.

“It is kinder than most of these,” said Elizabeth, poking through them. “My lord, you have been the subject of the satirist’s pen many times before; I hope you are not unduly distressed.”

“I do not like,” said the Earl, after a moment, “anyone making light of my son’s sacrifice.”

Elizabeth wished grief would stop lunging out at her like this, in the middle of conversations she thought safe.

Wellington said, “You may rest assured, sir, that I shall not allow it. I thought very highly of your son. And I am grateful to all your family for the assistance you have rendered me.” He cast aside the cartoon he was holding and said, “Well! The divorce is final, the Jacksons are married, and merchants are all collecting the bills the former Duchess failed to pay. I may campaign for your bill as you like. I might as well use all the attention turned on me.”

The thought of yet more politicking made Elizabeth feel unbearably low; when Honoria and Miss Duncan came in, they took one look at Elizabeth and announced their intention of kidnapping her away from Marjorie’s side for the day, and going to see the Elgin Marbles.

The marbles were currently being held in a shed in Elgin’s Park Lane house, patiently waiting for Parliament to decide whether or not they were worthy of purchase. Neither Honoria nor Miss Duncan cared very much about Ancient Greece, but they knew Elizabeth loved the look of it, and Honoria was very eager to see what had moved her even-tempered elder brother into very nearly a rage the week previous.

“They haven't any heads,” he had exclaimed, after he and Marjorie had come back from seeing the marbles themselves. “None at all!” The lack of heads on the statues was so distressing he returned to the subject multiple times over the course of the evening, to the amusement of all the ladies of the party.

And, true enough, there were no heads.

Elizabeth stared at them and said, “Did Lord Elgin just... strip off the facade of the Parthenon?”

“It certainly looks like it,” said Honoria. “And not very carefully either.”

Miss Duncan sketched away in the little notebook she carried everywhere with her, and made a noise indicative of her agreement.

“In anyone other than a peer, this might be called ‘defacement,’” quipped Elizabeth.

Honoria laughed. “There. Seen enough?”

“All that there _is_ to be seen, at least.” They waited for Miss Duncan to finish her sketch and slipped out of the shed, but, not feeling particularly inclined to go back to Matlock House, walked down to Pall Mall and looked into the shops. Elizabeth was easily tempted into Robert Dodsley’s famous bookstore, and spent a happy half-hour browsing the shelves. Miss Duncan was just as happy, and if Honoria was not, there were at least a number of people to talk to while the other members of her party were occupied.

Elizabeth was just looking over a copy of Byron’s _Hebrew Melodies_ and wondering if she could really justify spending a whole guinea on it, when “—heard that it was ever-so-much a surprise to the Duke,” floated towards her ear. Elizabeth turned to look over her shoulder and saw Miss Steele in close conversation with Mrs. Fanny Dashwood and Mrs. Willoughby, a trio of some of Elizabeth’s least favorite people in London.

“What exactly have you heard?” Mrs. Willoughby asked.

Miss Duncan noticed Elizabeth’s distraction first and put her hand on Elizabeth’s arm. “Mrs. Fitzwilliam, shall we walk on? It's getting rather crowded in here.”

Elizabeth ignored her. Miss Steele said, “I heard Wellington had no idea until after dinner, when his lawyer tracked him down to Matlock House. He was all afternoon and evening with his new favorite, the Earl of Matlock’s daughter-in-law. You know, the one still all in black, and her a nearly eight months into mourning.”

“I think that has more to do with Lord Matlock’s notion of what is right than Mrs. Fitzwilliam's,” said Mrs. Willoughby, very coolly. “Those born Fitzwilliams I find everything right and proper. I wish those fortunate enough to marry into such a family had the same notion of decorum. Really, when I ran into Mrs. Fitzwilliam the other day, she spoke on the most indelicate subjects. Pardon me, dear Mrs. Dashwood. It pains me to speak ill of a woman chosen by your mother’s dear friend, Lady Catherine.”

Honoria noticed that her two companions were distracted and turned in time to overhear Mrs. Dashwood saying, snidely, “Oh speak away, dear one! Lady Catherine sets a standard her relations do not follow. In order to win Duke of Wellington’s support for that tiresome bill one cannot escape hearing of in every salon, Matlock would give much more than his son’s widow.”

Elizabeth’s temper flared; she tried to shake off Miss Duncan’s hand.

Miss Duncan said, quietly, warningly, “Mrs. Fitzwilliam, have a care—”

“Trust me,” said Elizabeth. “I learnt from Marjorie.”

Honoria, by now quite furious herself said, curtly, “Let her go, Dora. They deserve whatever is coming to them.”

Miss Duncan reluctantly let her go.

Elizabeth strode over in time to hear Mrs. Dashwood finish saying “—Wellington seems to have been in her company all that afternoon.”

“I don't believe for a moment he was “visiting veterans” by Hampstead Heath,” said Mrs. Willoughby. “I have half a mind to go there myself, to prove there were n—”

“Mrs. Willoughby!” Elizabeth exclaimed brightly, hands extended, as if greeting an old friend. “Did I hear you express the desire to visit veterans on Hampstead Heath? How good of you to remember the friends I mentioned to you, when we last saw each other at Miss Sandbourne’s shop!” Elizabeth seized Mrs. Willoughby’s hands in both of hers and pressed them, contriving to make the pressure look as if it was out of enthusiasm, merely. “This is so kind of you, to express an interest in visiting all us war widows, who gave our husbands, and all the brave officers, who nearly gave their lives and certainly gave their limbs, for King and country. We meet every Tuesday, at noon. I shall call for you at half-past eleven, and we can drive over together!”

“Oh, I—” said Mrs. Willoughby, trying to pull away and recover.

Elizabeth pressed her advantage. “Really, it will do us all such good to see our sacrifices are not forgotten by society!” She launched into a litany of all the injuries and amputations the men of that circle had undergone, a subject of dubious propriety, but great veracity. Mrs. Dashwood looked confounded to be caught out (especially after Elizabeth graciously offered her a spot in the carriage “for Aunt Catherine tells me the Ferrars are so known for their commitment to the good of England, Mr. Edward Ferrars forsook his birthright to become a clergyman!”), and Miss Steele extremely bewildered by this strange turn of events.

Before Mrs. Willoughby could get a word in edgewise, Elizabeth spotted Lady Jersey, and waved to her. The sight of the Duke of Wellington’s current favorite, hand in hand with the Duchess of Wellington’s good friend was enough to intrigue anybody. Lady Jersey was not just anybody, and loved gossip more than most. She came over at once.

“Mrs. Willoughby has promised to come visit my friends from the Spanish Campaign,” Elizabeth said brightly. “Is that not everything kind and obliging of her? So many of them cannot get out with any ease, because they are widows with very young children and limited means, or because they have not limbs enough to make travel easy. Their solace is visiting. You know, I shall be a general favorite now— last week I secured for them to Duke of Wellington, and this week, no less a person as Mrs. Willoughby! The ladies will be as glad to hear of all the town gossip and fashions as the men were to hear Lord Wellington’s take on the actions that ended their careers. Though I must confess, we ladies liked just as much to hear how the actions that robbed us of our husbands also robbed the French of their victory. It is such a comfort!”

By the end of this Elizabeth rather feared she was turning into her mother, rattling away when no one was particularly interested in what she had to say, but Lady Jersey was quite fascinated, and responded with an equal torrent of loquacity. Lady Jersey was as generous as she was talkative, and was soon promising to come too, and began, without prompting, to talking of Doing Something for these poor unfortunates— a charity bazaar, or a subscription ball, or perhaps founding a home for the veterans of Waterloo. Mrs. Willoughby, not known for her charity, was increasingly flustered by being included in this conversation, especially as Mrs. Dashwood, desperate to avoid being asked to contribute money to the maintenance of someone other than herself or her children, had pretended to spot a friend on the other side of the room and run off, Miss Steele in tow.

“We must all go tomorrow!” exclaimed Lady Jersey, fired up with enthusiasm.

“I shall call on you both before I head there myself,” offered Elizabeth, though she had to enlist Marjorie to be quite certain of her success. They surprised Mrs. Willoughby before she could sneak out and more-or-less press-ganged her into the Matlock carriage. Lady Jersey, when they picked her up, seemed a little bewildered at how flustered Mrs. Willoughby was, but Marjorie talked in vague terms of philanthropy being so _intimidating_ when one first started, and Elizabeth spoke teasingly of womanly modesty, and Lady JErsey managed to combine these two inferences into a legitimate excuse.

Mrs. Fotheringay and the rest of the company were quite bewildered to have so many social celebrities descend upon them. They grew only really comfortable when Elizabeth began dropping hints in several ears about Mrs. Willoughby’s beginning her charitable visits last week, with Harriette Wilson. The widows and veterans rose magnificently to the occasion, and heaped such coals of niceness upon Mrs. Willoughby’s head, and so praised her kindness and charity, and waxed so poetic about their sufferings that Mrs. Willoughby was humiliated into sponsoring part of a hospital.

“I feel a little bad,” whispered Mrs. Fotheringay, to Elizabeth, when Mrs. Willoughby was being entertained by long stories of battlefield amputations on the other side of the room. “We outnumbered her and surrounded her.”

“She shouldn’t have attacked if she did not expect retaliation,” muttered another widow.

Marjorie smiled beatifically. “I do so love the military. Such _esprit du corps_.”

Elizabeth felt rather smug in her victory all the rest of the day. Indeed, when Wellington returned from visiting his sons, he raised an eyebrow at her and asked, “What has you so cheerful, Mrs. Fitz? Elgin decide to return his marbles?”

“She has merely had her Salamanca,” said Marjorie, not looking up from the flowers she was arranging. “It was really quite brilliant.”

“I learnt strategy from the best,” said Elizabeth.

Marjorie and Wellington both took this as a compliment, which amused Elizabeth considerably. She launched into a spirited retelling of her battle with Mrs. Willoughby. At the end of it, Wellington looked at her as if he had never seen her before.

Elizabeth laughed at him. “Why do you look at me so?”

“I have entirely underestimated you,” said Wellington. “My God, Mrs. Fitzwilliam, I rather owe you an apology for never having realized before the true extent of your abilities.”

Elizabeth was naturally flattered at this, but chose to be impertinent, rather than show her pleasure. She cast her mind about for some offense to lay at his door. “Then you will admit I was right, in the matter of the carriage?”

Wellington did not at first understand her and then said, “Oh, that! I had almost forgotten the carriage accident. Yes, you were entirely right. I oughtn’t to have scolded you, when you were the reason the carriage was put back on the road at all.”

This was a greater victory than she had been expecting, and so she had half launched into her next line of attack before she even realized she’d won.

But Wellington agreed, “Yes, I shall talk up your engineering capabilities whenever you wish, from here on out. I am sorry, my dear, that I had not realized until just now that _you_ are one of my most capable officers.”

Elizabeth beamed at the praise. Marjorie frowned at the roses she was holding up, but when asked what had her so thoughtful said merely, “I am not quite sure yet. There are more possibilities here than I had initially thought.” She offered them her sphinx’s smile. “But, I daresay with a little effort, and some careful arranging on my part, the end result will please everybody.”


	5. In which Mrs. Fitzwilliam blushes a great deal

Though Elizabeth thought that the Fitzwilliams could now all turn their attention to their bill for the establishment of a Royal Army Medical Corps, she turned out to be entirely wrong. The next day the world was abuzz with the news of the Widow Fitzwilliam's feud with Mrs. Willoughby. After the third caller had dropped by, attempting to sniff out details like a French pig after truffle mushrooms, Marjorie said, “My dear, I do not wonder you acted as you did— for anyone you consider a friend I believe you truly capable of anything— but I do wonder if you quite understand the consequences of so warm a defense of Wellington. _Especially_ —” she added, when Elizabeth opened her mouth to protest “—since you are such a favorite. Wellington has made no secret of his preference.”

Elizabeth protested but foremost on her mind was the uncomfortable realization that she _was_ a favorite and she was happy to be so. This knowledge, born on the evening Wellington had shown her his mark, had disturbed her in an odd way, like something stuck behind a tooth. She probed at it in her few idle moments, but she had been moving so quickly from crisis to crisis she'd had no time to do more. She fell into a flustered silence when it dawned on her that her earlier understanding of the situation— that her desires, as she best now understood them, while still struggling with so profound a loss as that of her soulmate, and so devastating an event as Waterloo, were all fulfilled in her current relationship with Wellington— could be very easily misconstrued. She had defended him, and passionately too, in public; their behavior towards each other had caused comment from two people with outlooks as different as Miss Crawford and Mr. Darcy; they sought each other out in the evenings; they were becoming known as each other's confidantes.

“You've done splendidly so far,” said Marjorie, soothingly, “but my dear, you have been whisked center stage for an aria after having sung in the back row of the chorus all your time in society. Are you quite prepared? People will....” She hesitated and then said, delicately, “People will not be kind.”

Elizabeth did not know how to answer, which was an answer in and of itself. Marjorie proposed a visit to the lady most adept at understanding society’s rules (for she had found the exceptions to all of them): Lady Melbourne.

Though Lady Melbourne was only a very distant relation through marriage (Marjorie’s cousin, Lady Caroline Lamb, had married Lady Melbourne's son, the Honorable Charles Lamb), she and Marjorie were both the sort of women who had early on taken the measure of their society, and the small place allotted to them within it, and begun twisting rules and precepts, pushing at regulations and proprieties until they had carved out a space for themselves. Such was the understanding between them that Marjorie had only to murmur something vague about Mrs. Willoughby for Lady Melbourne to begin discussing parallel cases of rivalries between society ladies, some of which were more apt than others. Then she began to go into rather strange tangents. Elizabeth blushed and blushed again at these generalities on discretion, on the benefits of waking up before the servants’ bell, on the best receipt for a very good pennyroyal tea in case of upsetting delays, of how tiresome gossip could be and what to deny and what to ignore, of the necessity of feminine decorum, of the missteps of various infamous ladies who had dropped from _ton_ to _demi-monde._ It was only when Marjorie made an overt comment about Lady Caroline Lamb that Elizabeth at last returned to her normal color. She supposed Lady Melbourne’s thoughts would never be far from Caro Lamb, particularly since rumor had it she was writing a tell-all book about The Byron Affair.

Elizabeth listened with perhaps prurient interest in how this particular scandal could have, in Lady Melbourne’s opinion, been avoided— not without some shock at the hypocrisy expected of a lady, and some embarrassment in the practicalities of aristocratic liaisons, but with the better part of relief that at last someone was not talking about the Wellesleys and Fitzwilliams. This relief did not last long; Lady Melbourne concluded her talk with a dry, “Really, if one wishes to learn how to conduct a discreet liaison, they have but to look at Caro and do the exact opposite of everything she did. That is the advice I would offer any young woman.”

Elizabeth blushingly asked, in the carriage ride back, “Marjorie— tell me honestly. Are people going to assume... what Lady Melbourne assumed?”

“Yes,” said Marjorie. “People are crude. They think everything devolves or revolves around sex. Unless another distraction is tossed their way, it is what they will think.” Then, after a pause, Marjorie said, “I am a little surprised to see you so embarassed, Lizzy. It’s hardly shocking, or the scandal of the season to assume a young widow would take up with an eligible bachelor who has been rather too obvious in his admiration.”

“Perhaps in your circles,” said Elizabeth, now the color of an infantry uniform coat, “but—”

“My circles are your circles,” said Marjorie. “Dear girl, you’re not a Miss Bennet, daughter of a country squire. You are the Widow Fitzwilliam. You live in an Earl’s house, you write to Madame de Staël, you are friends, or at least friendly with the patronesses of Almack’s. Face it, dear girl, you are of the upper ten thousand now. You are one of us.”

“That does not mean I agree with every point of aristocratic behavior.”

“No one does,” said Marjorie, raising an eyebrow, “but we are required to adhere to a certain number of them.”

“And... what Lady Melbourne _insinuated_ —”

Marjorie interrupted, “Lizzy, it isn’t like you to so entirely misunderstand what is said to you. Lady Melbourne gave what I thought to be a remarkably comprehensive overview of the overlap between what is expected and what is _accepted_.”

Elizabeth folded her arms across her chest fuming. “I do not accept this interpretation of a perfectly ordinary friendship.”

“I know,” said Marjorie, looking askance at her, “but you will have to toughen yourself to even the unpleasant expectations of our society— not what is expected in terms of moral behavior, but what is the expected.... emotional response to a given situation. And really, Lizzy, I never expected you to be quite so prudish.”

“I am not _prudish."_

“I could understand being squeamish about adultery, but a perfectly ordinary liaison between two unmarried, consenting adults! There are no spouses to be hurt. It isn’t as if you were a maid, and you are being untrue to your soulmate by failing to wait for them— a ridiculous double standard, I think! Men are always being taken to _professionals_ when they are sixteen or seventeen, so that they might know what they are about when they meet their soulmates. Women are just expected to sit idly in ignorance.” She paused and said, “Hm. You don’t think you would be... untrue to poor Richard if you accepted some other man’s attentions?”

Elizabeth did not so much turn this over in her mind as toss it about like a hot potato. “I— no. No, perhaps—” She made a frustrated noise. “I know my husband is gone and gone forever, but I just... I still feel his absence so keenly I cannot....”

Marjorie distilled her pile of incoherent objections to: “You find Lady Melbourne’s ideas ridiculous, because of how much you still miss your husband.”

It was like lancing an infected wound; painful upon the first piercing strike, but Elizabeth grimly waited out the hurt and felt a little better for having this expressed. “I do not like everyone assuming that I... I loved my husband so little I would take up with any man with whom I happen to be friends. Especially when I have not completed a full year of mourning.”

“The Duke of Wellington is not just _any man_ , but I take your point. Please do know though, that you and Richard were  talked of everywhere as a true match, and your marriage was remarked upon only for how truly happy it was. No one would think the less of you for needing a little consolation.” Marjorie said, after moment, “I hope, my dear, that because old Mr. Darcy and Lady Catherine and our father-in-law did not remarry after the loss of their soulmates, you are thinking that we expect you to be alone forever. I do not—” she added quickly, holding up a hand to forestall Elizabeth’s arguments “—mean to tell you that you must marry again, or that you must have a torrid affair, but you are my friend and my sister and I do not wish to see you unhappy. Allow yourself to feel more than grief, my dear.”

“But express it according to Lady Melbourne’s dictates?” asked Elizabeth, dryly.

“Exactly.” Then after a moment, Marjorie said, “You don’t think Wellington is untrue to whatever person—”

“Oh no,” said Elizabeth, without thinking. “His soulmate is dead too.”

She only realized what she had betrayed when Marjorie gave her a long, measuring look and asked, “And how do you know that, Lizzy?”

“He told me,” she said, reluctantly, “but it isn’t like that. He has told me often enough how much he appreciates having a friend who he can tell anything. It is very close friendship, not anything....” She made a vague gesture.

“Even if it was,” said Marjorie, “I am telling you that it would be more than acceptable.”

“It would not be acceptable _to me."_

Marjorie looked doubtful at this, but did not press her.

***

Parliament opened the next day, which gave Elizabeth some excuse for ignoring the fact that at least two people whose social resources she greatly respected not only expected... but _accepted_ the idea she might be the Duke of Wellington’s mistress. She had always been a good girl, Elizabeth thought, rather moodily, as Mrs. Pattinson pulled curling tongs from the brazier and began the daily morning attack on her hair. Perhaps she had been... a little improper with Colonel Fitzwilliam, when they were first engaged, kissing in lanes and stable yards and the like, but it had fallen within the realms of acceptable behavior. She had been kissing her soulmate.

A voice that sounded very much like Marjorie's asked, ‘and would this not also fall within the realms of acceptable behavior? Lady Melbourne herself said that as long as any line of succession was not imperiled— and Wellington did have two sons, so the inheritance of the dukedom is secure, and she would not be distracting him from his duties to his title— and she did know how to prevent pregnancy, which kept off the danger to the line of succession from the other direction—’

Elizabeth shut her book with a snap, upset with herself for even considering the possibility.

“Book not to your liking, ma’am?” Mrs. Pattinson asked, noticing Elizabeth's distraction.

“Too tired to read this morning.”

Mrs. Pattinson nodded. “Been a busy time, ma’am. Not that Mr. Pattinson or I would grudge any service at all to our Atty.”

This made her laugh. “No, nor I.”

“I was always right proud Lord Wellington admired you from the first, ma’am,” said Mrs. Pattinson, carefully sliding a curl off the tongs. She set the iron back in the brazier and neatly separated out another section of hair. “I remember, the first time I dressed you for a ball it was in Lisbon, and His Grace was so good as to take you into the supper set and he said he liked the flowers in your hair. Them jacaranda blossoms, it was, the nice purpley ones. I was ever so proud, especially since the Colonel told me about it too, and thanked me particularly the next morning.”

“Colonel Fitzwilliam was always so good about remembering those sorts of things,” said Elizabeth. She felt a little better recalling that she had always been a favorite and a safe flirt. After all, upon their first meeting, Wellington had said himself how rare it was to hear of a true match, and rarer still to have it actually be so.

“But His Grace always admires you more after a crisis, ma’am,” replied Mrs. Pattinson, expertly wrapping another curl about the tongs. “Mr. Pattinson and I, we was noticing that particularly this time around, if that is not too bold of me to say. I don’t think he’s ever admired you as much.”

Elizabeth felt distressed and had no answer. She instead picked up a lady’s magazine and feigned interest in flipping through it.

Mrs. Pattinson continued on, in fine military partiality, “I am glad to see it, ma’am. The likes of His Grace should be with fine ladies what know how to be ladies even on campaign and in crises, not them fancy pieces that only turn round and betray him.”

“I have noticed that veterans tend to defend each other to the death even off the battlefield,” said Elizabeth. “Habits of the service.” She tried to interest herself in a fashion plate for a new court gown, but aside from revisiting the opinion that hoops looked stupid with a high waistline, she could think of nothing else. After a moment she asked, “What do mean he admires me more now? I thought you were just saying that he's always admired me.”

Mrs. Pattinson looked at her a little oddly and said, “Just what I said, ma’am. He knew you were quality when you met, and you proved it, and each time you prove it, he likes you more. So now he likes you better than all the other ladies of the ton. And so he should.”

Unwillingly charmed by this partiality, she smiled and said, “You mean, since I fetched Lord Darcy for him and tiffed with Mrs. Willoughby on his behalf.”

“Well, perhaps it isn’t my place to say anything about it, ma’am.”

“That’s never stopped you before,” said Elizabeth, dryly.

Mrs. Pattinson continued on, “Well, then, yes, ma’am, I've been noticing it since mid-January, but it's more marked now. I don't think there's anyone in London whose company he prefers over yours.”

“A very gracious tribute to the opera singers left in Paris, Mrs, Pattinson. I commend your diplomacy.”

“He'd do better to forget ‘em, if Harriette Smithson’s anything to go by,” she muttered. “A real lady don't tell and all. All the real ladies I've waited on, they all said a true lady knew how to keep her secrets and those of others.”

‘And I am a real lady, according to my maid,’ thought Elizabeth. ‘Heavens, how the news I am one would shock my mother!’

When Mrs. Pattinson at last deemed her presentable, Elizabeth set out of her room feeling uneasy and wrestling with the idea that perhaps _she_ was the only one who had assumed there was only friendship between herself and Wellington. She had assumed he had flirted out of habit, or because he liked shocking her, or because they had become acquainted where the rules of propriety were not as strictly observed. But she had been wrong and extremely wrong about the intents of well-known rakes before. A vision of Mr. Wickham swam before her mind’s eye. If even her maid was hinting at Wellington’s partiality—

She paused on the second stair from the landing, seeing the subject of her troubled thoughts, decked out in all his red ducal robes trimmed with white fur, walking down before her. Hearing her, Wellington turned to her, one hand still resting on the bannister. “Mrs. Fitz! I’m glad to see you looking so beautiful.”

Elizabeth colored, and, afraid that her thoughts might be read upon her countenance, tried to hide this with a sprightly, “Mrs. Pattinson’s been very hard at work. You look very fine! Hold a moment— there’s something on your ermine.”

He looked up at her with a half-smile; Elizabeth bent and carefully dusted lint off of one broad shoulder, feeling discombobulated enough to twitter on, “I must admit, sir, full regalia is really very splendid. I do not consider it at all superior to full military dress uniform, however! I'm always of two minds about fur.”

“What remarkable partiality you have for red superfine, then, my dear,” Wellington said, tone warm and teasing. “I should never let you loose in a supply depot; you’ll swoon straight away.”

“I have never swooned in my life,” Elizabeth protested, with a final few pats to his ermine. “There! Now you're perfect.” She raised her eyes from the shoulders of his robe to meet his eyes; they seemed arrestingly blue. There also seemed to be an unusual warmth to his gaze, a spark of blazing excitement that leapt from him to her, and she found it suddenly difficult to breathe normally.

Elizabeth realized they were standing on the landing, her hand still on his shoulder, and swallowed. She made a slight gesture to move her hand; Wellington said, in a low, intimate tone, “I am much indebted to you, my dear,” and, capturing her hand, raised it to his lips.

Elizabeth colored and said, “I shan't swoon from this shew of gallantry, sir.”

“Oh no, that was not my intent,” he replied, running his thumb over her knuckles. “I meant to make you blush. I have been neglecting to do so, what with all the distractions of the past week. Before all this I had settled it with myself I ought to provoke your blushes as often as I could. You do it so prettily.”

“You say the most outrageous things to me,” protested Elizabeth.

“And do you dislike it?”

After a moment, Elizabeth admitted to feeling quite the opposite. She was not sure of the wisdom of this and colored and looked away, to see a door opening in the hall; Wellington reluctantly released her hand when Lord Stornoway emerged and engaged them both in rather inane conversation. Elizabeth knew that she had been buttoned, tied, curled, and pomaded to a level of utmost neatness and presentability, but felt internally disheveled. The feeling lingered even after everything was back to its usual routine— or as usual as it could be, given all the circumstances.

Colonel Pascal, who had resumed his visits once the Fitzwilliams were able to turn their attention back to the bill, noticed this and asked her one afternoon what was wrong.

“Oh,” she said, making a vinegar face, “emotions are complicated. Why on earth do we have them?”

“A question more for philosophers than simple surgeons as myself,” said Colonel Pascal, idly flipping through a stack of newspapers, pamphlets, and satiric prints on a side table. “Ah, here's another Wellington with cuckold’s horns.”

“Into the fire please.”

He tossed it. “I am surprised His Grace is not here this afternoon. He seems to have replaced Mr. Darcy as your particular shadow.” He pulled out another print and said, idly, “A very bad representation of bombazine.”

Elizabeth took from him a satirical print with Wellington holding up the dark skirt of a pretty woman in a widow’s veil (meant to be Elizabeth). This rather generic picture of a dark-haired Englishwoman had her her hand over her mouth as if feigning shock. Wellington's nose and hat poked out over the top of the full spread of skirts, his famous boots poked out at the bottom, with ‘Wellington’s new line of defense’ scrolling over the whole. “They made me much prettier than I actually am, so I am inclined to forgive them. Anyhow, Wellington is never here in the afternoons; it's when he visits his sons. I'm sure if he left at consistent times, instead of when he feels he can break away from his correspondence, Darcy would be over as often as before.”

“The gentlemen do not like each other?”

“They haven't since they first met, after Waterloo,” replied Elizabeth, turning back to her work. The christening gown was proving too aggravatingly complicated at present, so she was instead hemming handkerchiefs. The good ones she reserved for her father; the bad she condemned to the poor basket, with a mental apology to anyone indigent enough to be forced to use them. “They are both too used to having their own way. That and Darcy thinks Wellington is a rake of the first water.”

“He is,” said Colonel Pascal.

Elizabeth looked heavenward. “That is true, but he's been behaving himself much better since the divorce.”

“It is to be hoped that he learnt his lesson,” said Colonel Pascal, amused, “but I think it is lack of opportunity rather than a concerted attempt at virtue.”

“He only just started flirting with me again; I think he _was_ actually shaken by his ordeal.” It was idly said; Elizabeth colored and added, “Not that I— I only meant that it's his habit to flirt with me. I was always a safe target.”

Colonel Pascal looked at her and then said, “Madame, you may want to reevaluate.”

“Oh, not you too!” she protested.

“You were just talking about complicated emotions,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets and looking loftily amused. “I can guess what they are; I can also guess—” this delicately, like putting down a porcelain teacup so that it would not clink against the saucer “—that nowhere in your upbringing was it ever discussed what to do when convention fails you.”

“You are becoming very French on me,” said Elizabeth, which was an unworthy insult, and one that Colonel Pascal nobly ignored.

“Have you any concept of having relations with someone not your soulmate?”

“You are not supposed to,” protested Elizabeth, very red. “That is the whole shape and scope of my understanding of... that. That is— if you have no heirs you might marry a second time if you are a widow or a widower—”

“Or if you are lonely, or fall in love or for any reason you choose,” said Colonel Pascal, “but I do not speak of that; I do not think you would like to marry again.”

Elizabeth managed a smile. “It is difficult for me to think of any marriage I would like as much as the one I lost. But what do you mean, to be talking of relationships outside of marriage?”

“I often must,” he replied, gently. “Only in France and her colonies are people like myself actually allowed to marry. And the stigma here, even against domestic partnerships, sometimes inclines my friends not to get them.”

Elizabeth said, “Oh I feel a wretch; I am terribly sorry, Pascal—”

He forced a smile. “I say it only to shew there is more variety and complication in human love than you are presently allowing. Do you know of the... perhaps less respectable definition of an intimate friend?” Then, assuming she did not, he said, “Someone trusted you might turn to for... comfort at night, while still remaining friends in the day. It is very common in my circles.”

“Not at all in mine,” said Elizabeth.

“It might help,” he replied. “I have seen often enough the very great good human contact does in healing from wounds that scar only the soul.”

Darcy came in then, with Boatswain, and Elizabeth shot Colonel Pascal a warning glance. She would die of embarrassment to talk of anything that even touched upon sex before Mr. Darcy. They instead discussed the bill, and the oncoming arrival of Lady Catherine, and what it was Elizabeth had actually managed to embroider when she tried to capture Boatswain in silk thread, on one of her handkerchiefs. (Colonel Pascal thought it might be a dog, if Fuseli had drawn it, and also had never seen a dog before; Darcy thought it a display of very cunning embroidery knots, but as Darcy was wearing a truly awful bit of tangled wool Georgiana had called a knitted scarf, Elizabeth and Colonel Pascal declared his taste in handicrafts suspect in the extreme.)

***

With the descent of Lady Catherine on London came a more determined return to normalcy. Lady Catherine would allow nothing less.

To no one’s surprise, Wellington disliked the renewed slew of visitors and dinner guests, all of whom he assumed were there to ferret out details of his divorce. He also disliked Lady Catherine, whose delicacy led her not to speak of Wellington's divorce directly, but to give a rather snide and incoherent monologue on how the former Duchess of Wellington had tricked His Grace, and how one really couldn't trust the Irish.

Wellington did not much like Ireland, or the fact that he was technically Irish himself, but liked still less someone bringing attention to the fact that he or any member of his family had ever been Irish; Marjorie very hastily exclaimed, “Oh, Your Grace— you did promise my Julia you would let her see Copenhagen this morning! We have kept you here! Lizzy will you go and tell Miss Fairfax we will be only a minute more?”

Elizabeth very hastily arranged this. Wellington had a fondness for children, and as the three Fitzwilliam children still at home were all well-mannered and horse-mad, this went a certain way to improving his temper. Elizabeth's sticking to him like a burr, and promising to do so as long as Lady Catherine haunted Marlock House like a particularly blithering ghost, was much better.

She often kept him with her in her private parlor, so that he might have the benefit of the society of  military friends, who came to call on her, rather than to talk over various scandals, or the company of Darcy (who still obviously disliked Wellington, but at least would rather die before ever talking about the divorce), or Colonel Pascal. After dinner Elizabeth kept a careful guard over Wellington’s privacy, and distracted what visitors could not be kept away by the rest of the family. She talked when she felt moved, re-read _Cecilia_ and _Evelina_ for comfort when she did not; and could not help but feel a little awkward that Darcy still hung about the both of them, looking suspiciously at Wellington when he thought there was the least chance of her seeing it. Elizabeth and Wellington were so often in company, she began to worry that they might run out of things to say to each other, but the quiet they fell into, while keeping each other company, was soothing; a pause because nothing needed to be said, rather than because they could think of nothing to say.

Elizabeth tried not to think of Lady Melbourne’s hints and advice during these times, but it would suddenly spring to mind and cause a blush or a moment’s confused distraction. Nor could she deny that her frustration was beginning to reach unbearable levels; even when she took matters in hand herself, she still found herself eyeing His Grace speculatively over her embroidery hoop, and accepting every flimsy excuse he came up with to touch her. He was not as pointed about it as he had previously been. Indeed, some of the time it seemed almost absent-minded, as if he had not merely some right but some obligation to lead her into dinner, to help her with her cloak if she went in or out, to help rearrange her shawl over the crook of her arm or the curve of her shoulder if she carelessly let it fall.

She began to wonder just what might happen if she pressed His Grace, if she managed to make his attentions and insinuations arrive at what Lady Melbourne had held to be its inevitable conclusion. Marjorie hadn't thought it that outrageous an outcome either. Colonel Pascal had advised her taking up with a friend almost as if advising her to be bled for a fever. Elizabeth was annoyed that her first reaction to these thoughts were to try and justify them, with the opinions of others. It was only when Lord Matlock’s Bill for the Establishment of a Permanent Royal Army Medical Corps and the Standards Thereof was presented before the House of Lords that Elizabeth realized she was doing so because she did not like to admit she wanted, and wanted badly something she had been raised to consider improper.

Elizabeth leaned back against the pew in the lady’s gallery, hiding, or attempting to hide her scandalous desires, behind her widow’s veil, longest, most draping gown of black bombazine, and simplest fur-lined black cloak. It seemed impossible to cloak herself in respectability when she could not shift her thoughts away from how badly she wanted an intimate as Colonel Pascal had defined it. But, she argued with herself, with a glance at Marjorie, who was next to her, was she really doing wrong or injuring anyone merely by wanting it? Plenty of widows, even widows she knew personally, took up a lover or a second husband—

—but because it was widespread, was it right?

But, perversely, if it was so widespread, was it something held to be wrong merely because it contradicted society’s dominant narrative, that a person ought to love and make love to their soulmate and their soulmate alone?

But even then, Elizabeth thought, with increasing frustration, no one ever thought men wrong for sleeping with women not their soulmate—

“Alright Mrs. Fitzwilliam?” asked Miss Crawford, on Elizabeth’s left.

“I hate this,” Elizabeth said, unthinkingly.

“The Lords can be a trial,” agreed Marjorie, with a sigh, as her cousin, the sixth Duke of Devonshire, continued loudly on through his speech. “Though perhaps you were not reflecting on Hart’s speech— poor man, he is growing deafer by the year— but on something else?”

She settled on, “Morality.”

“Dull stuff,” opined Miss Crawford. “Are you thinking of writing essays to pass the time?”

“No, just— contemplating what constitutes a moral action.”

“Are we getting into categorical imperatives?” Marjorie asked.

“I Kant take it,” quipped Miss Crawford. “And at any rate, I disagree. I do not think he is right in saying there are absolute imperative right actions that are right in every and all circumstances.”

“But don't you agree that in all places and in all circumstances slavery is wrong?” Elizabeth asked.

“Yes, but not because there is a universal principle of human morality which we are obliged to follow,” said Miss Crawford. “I think slavery is wrong and ought to be abolished because of the harm it does to others. My philosophy is to minimize the harm done by any action or system or society on people. It is a corruption of Marjorie's; I took it from her when I had a....” She paused and said, delicately, “A disappointment that caused me to seriously rethink my own moral code.”

Marjorie said, “One of my Spencer relations once told me, when I was a young girl, to always ask myself, ‘Who does my action harm?’ If the answer is no one, then you may proceed on freely— albeit in a somewhat utilitarian fashion, with an eye towards promoting the greatest amount of good to the greatest number of people, building coalitions and so on to advance one’s family, or political aims— and if the answer is ‘this would harm so and so’ to question the necessity of the action.”

“But,” asked Elizabeth, “if it is not necessity that drives you, but desire—”

“The point still stands. Let us say I desire sugar in my tea. Who does this harm?”

“Generally the slaves who have to produce it,” said Miss Crawford.

“However,” said Marjorie, “I can make a moral choice while satisfying my desire. I can buy my sugar from free men who indeed need my support. By pursuing my desire for sugar in my tea, I am doing something morally right and perhaps even good.”

“You can do a lot more to end slavery than merely buying sugar from free men,” objected Miss Crawford.

“One complicated bill at a time, dear.”

Elizabeth looked rather fixedly at the Duke of Devonshire, trying to work through her own thoughts; Mary Crawford, seeing this, snorted and said, “Marjorie, your dear sister here is too polite to say it, but she’s wondering how morally right it was for your cousin Devonshire’s mother and father— or rather, your uncle and aunt— to have the arrangement they did.”

“Oh, their menage-a-trois?” Marjorie spread her hands. “What's to say, really? My aunt somehow loved both her husband and her friend Lady Bess, at the same time, and Bess and Devonshire loved each other too, and all three of them had a better time of it cohabitating than they did when they lived separately. It made all three of them happy, and regardless of what the Tories say, it harmed no one.”

“Does your family mind that Lady Bess married the Duke of Devonshire after your aunt died?” asked Mary.

“I'm sure some of them do,” replied Marjorie, dryly, “but who was it harming? My cousin Hart inherited the title, as you see, so it didn’t harm our blood relations. Aunt Gee was dead. She couldn't be harmed any further.”

“The Church of England holds that there is one soulmate for every person— only one,” replied Elizabeth.

“The Church of England,” replied Marjorie, coolly, “was founded because Henry the VIII wanted half-a-dozen wives. It has no place objecting to sixth marriages, let alone second ones.”

“The issue is female sexuality,” said Honoria, with whom this was something of a pet topic. She was in the row behind them, and had listened to their conversation with interest. “It always is. If your uncle had had a wife and a mistress in his house, it would have caused little to no comment.”

“ _Some_ comment,” protested Marjorie. “Mistresses aren't to live in the same house as wives.”

“But you will agree that the part that really upset everyone was not that the wife and the mistress should be wife and mistress, but that they refused to let their emotional lives be solely dictated by a man. They loved each other.”

“Society does not like women to have any kind of sexual pleasure outside of marriage,” agreed Marjorie.

Mary said, “I have never understood why female sexuality is so dangerous as all that.”

“Putting aside the matter of issue and inheritance, it comes very close to proving we have desires of our own,” said Marjorie, dryly. “And that is a little too close to proving we have minds and wills of our own and then the men might have to give us the right to vote, if we own sufficient property to be responsible enough for the duty.”

“Marjorie my dear,” said Mary, fascinated, “are you then saying that taking on a lover might, in its own small way, be a morally good action?”

“In certain circumstances, I imagine so,” she replied, cautiously.

“At the very least, it would destabilize the dominant paradigm restricting the full range of female sexuality to a narrow swathe of acceptable behavior controlled and defined by men,” said Honoria. “At least, in some cases.”

Elizabeth eyed Mr. Darcy’s back, hoping he was not listening to this; but he and Colonel Pascal appeared to be trying to explain, in words of two syllables or less, just what was going on to Stornoway and were insensible to the conversation.

“You are not going to convince me that sex is a politically subversive act,” said Mary.

“I'm not saying that it always is,” replied Honoria. “I am merely _saying_ that I think it morally unjust that female sexuality should be so narrowly restricted. By your own definition of a moral act, which is to minimize the harm done on the individual by those in power—”

“This is all a little too radical for me, my dears,” interrupted  Marjorie, seeing how uncomfortable Elizabeth was. “Lizzy, dear, try not to look quite so pained. Endeavor to be Patience on a monument, that sort of thing. My brother Spencer is next and I know he means to gesture towards us.”

Elizabeth tried, but did not meet with great success. It did not help that most of the debate in the Lords relied upon old men blustering at each other. The main argument against the bill seemed to be this: our army beat Napoleon’s. It obviously works. Why tinker with it?

Lord Matlock and his allies were long in explaining why, and his opponents were longer in accusing them of being unpatriotic. This, at least, was something interesting. Elizabeth got to see her father-in-law, quite red with rage, ask no less a person than the Duke of Marlborough if his son had given his life for Britain, and if his son had been martyred on the very gate that won Waterloo. This was not actually true, as the true culprit in Colonel Fitzwilliam’s death had been septicemia, but it was so good a rhetorical flourish, Elizabeth was inclined to let it slide.

Her only real spurt of anxiety was when Wellington got up to talk, for he had confided in her that he was uncertain as to his reception in the Lords. Elizabeth gripped the edge of her seat when he rose and addressed the house. The Lords were perhaps not better mannered than the House, but they did not make cuckold’s horns at him, as Wellington had joked they might. She caught Wellington’s eye and smiled at him, trying to hide her very real anxiety for him, and directed her attention (and therefore his) to the Whigs, whom she knew to be supportive.

The Whigs, chivied onto the bill by their own principles, and by Matlock cashing in a lifetime of favors, had accepted Wellington as part and parcel of the bill. They were also rather pleased he had behaved so well, in stepping aside as he had, and the more politically savvy were impressed at how well he’d handled it, and were eager to lure so influential a man away from the Tories towards their own principles. They called out only ‘here, here!’s and various cheers when Wellington began on the strong note of, ‘remember how I beat Napoleon’?

The Tories were Wellingtons’ own party, the party all his brothers had supported in their various careers, and, as he began to speak about his service in India, on the Peninsula, and at Waterloo, and the numbers of injuries and casualties he had seen there, they closed ranks about him. Though few of the Tories took the Fitzwilliam line on One True Matches to the extent of supporting same sex unions (and even then the Fitzwilliams did not so much “support” as “struggle with” the idea of equal rights for same sex couples), they held fast to ecclesiastical law. This law dictated that every individual in the world had but one soulmate and the purpose of marriage was to unite those two specific individuals in the eyes of God and man. (And, in the event of one’s soulmate being dead, the secondary purpose of children, companionship, etc. though with a different ceremony and service.) Though they would have prefered a Duke to remain married, they could not deny the far reaches of their own tenets.

Then too, Wellington’s eldest brother, the Earl of Mornington, had been, at various points, Governor-General of India, Ambassador to Spain, and Foreign Secretary; his service to the empire, and the various appointments that had been within his gift, had gone a long way to getting the Tories to ignore the spate of terrible marriages and awful romantic choices every single Wellesley brother (except William Wellesley-Pole) had made.

Several dinners had been enough to cement the impression, amongst the majority of politicians, that Wellington’s marital woes had been akin to those of his brother Henry, whose wife had discovered (six children in), that her True Match was actually Lord Uxbridge, and run off with him to Scotland. Henry Wellesley was left routed and dismayed, still convinced that his ex-wife had been his soulmate, no matter how many times friends, well-wishers, enemies, and ill-wishers had told him he had been mistaken. Sympathy was, however, more with Wellington than it had been with his brother, because people had begun to think that Wellington had been somehow tricked. He had entered into his marriage expecting a soulmate, only to realize at the altar this was not the case. His honor engaged, he did not withdraw, but, upon evidence of a true match, he had given up what limited domestic happiness he had and agreed to a divorce. The new Mrs. Jackson ill-advisedly declaring to Marietta Edgeworth in a public place that there had been no spectre of misconduct on Mr. Jackson’s part, and that she had been never broken any marital vow, and that Wellington was the epitome of a gentleman, and that her first, unhappy marriage had been no one’s fault (for Wellington had assumed they were soulmates, and she had assumed that they were marrying because there was no chance of meeting their soulmates) had only cemented this interpretation. She had concluded this by bursting into tears and saying her only regret now was that Wellington could not be as happy as she was, for his soulmate was dead, which added an appealing sheen of tragedy over the whole.   

Wellington did not particularly _like_ that his public persona was now less Military Genius Who Beat Boney and more Tormented Soul Suffering the Pains of Star-Crossed Love, but it was better than Idiot Cuckolded By His Sons’ Tutor, as Marjorie had taken pains to point out.

Wellington’s short speech concluded with more applause than was really warranted for an argument that went, ‘I am the Duke of Wellington, victor of Waterloo, Field Marshal of England, Generalissimo of Spain, Head of the Anglo-Allied Army governing France, etc. Do you really want to contradict me on military affairs?’

Elizabeth caught Wellington’s eye again; he raised his eyebrows at her, a little nonplussed at the reaction to his speech. She looked arch enough to make him smile and colored a little when she thought he winked at her.

“Ah,” said Marjorie, satisfied. “We won.”

“They haven’t voted yet,” protested Honoria.

“I’m fighting on multiple fronts,” said Marjorie. “I’ve rehabilitated Wellington. That’s one battle won. And it’s a step towards winning my next.”

And indeed, the Earl of Matlock carried the day; his bill bassed through the Lords after only six hours of debate. Elizabeth was so overwhelmed with one thing and another that when Marjorie’s brother, the Earl Spencer, and his wife Lavinia, kindly came over to offer their condolences on her loss and congratulations on her victory, Elizabeth found tears coming to her eyes. Marjorie’s other brother, Major Lawrence Spencer, noticed this and came over with Wellington, with whom he was discussing the reaction of the Horse Guards to this bill.

“I am sorry,” said Elizabeth, with difficulty, “I ought to be happy; we are halfway towards a goal of many months’ standing. But I....”

Seeing that her handkerchief was now soaked through, Major Spencer offered her his with a kindly, “I know, my dear. The reason _why_ this is a goal is a hard one to live with. I feel rather low myself, and Colonel Fitzwilliam was merely a very good friend, not a soulmate. Then there's battle fatigue and all... perhaps I should go find your father-in-law and tell him you wish to go back home? Being here is, I imagine, somewhat overwhelming.”

She agreed to this, and Wellington, equally eager to get away from the crowd, volunteered his own coach, if Major Spencer would travel with them and alert the Earl of Matlock to their plans. This agreed to, Wellington managed to take her through a less crowded passageway and towards the front steps of the Lords.

“That nightmare is over,” said Wellington, attempting to cheer her up. “I hate making speeches. I never understood why Shakespeare was so fond of his generals giving them before battles. Seems damned useless to me. You cannot get all your troops to hear you.”

“You liked the applause, at least?”

“I distrust it,” he replied. “It can too easily turn to jeering. No, I shall be well pleased to be away from any more dreadful speechifying in the Lords and be back to the Army in France.”

Elizabeth was still sniffling a little, but trying not to shew it; she blew her nose and wiped her eyes, saying, “I am surprised you dislike telling a large number of men what to do!”

Wellington sent the footman at the door to fetch his carriage; they stood in the antechamber as Wellington helped Elizabeth into her sables, which she had been carrying over her arm. “When the men I am addressing ignore what I say in order to insult each other, I generally do not enjoy it, no. There is little I like about this particular form of politics. Particularly not after the fortnight I've had. I would gladly have gone back to France as soon as Parliament opened, and avoided all this unpleasant speculation and attention.”

“Why did you stay then, Your Grace?” she asked turning to face him. “For this bill?”

He cupped her cheek and smoothed away a tear with his thumb. “I did it for you, my dear.”

Elizabeth stared up at him; his hand lingered on her cheek, fingers spreading to the line of her jaw— to draw the shape of her cheek or draw her in, she did not know. They seemed quite alone in their antechamber, the servants all outside on business, the crowds still milling about in the main halls and chambers.

She wondered if he would kiss her.

For a moment, it seemed like he would.

Wellington bent towards her, but then at the sound of someone calling his name, he checked himself, removed his hand, and added, “And for your family of course; I am not insensible of their efforts on my behalf. Here is my elder brother Mornington. Allow me to make him known to you.”

She tried to hide her disappointment before turning, but fancied Wellington caught it. He was certainly fighting a smirk as he turned to the Earl of Mornington and introduced her.

“Ah the Widow Fitzwilliam,” said Mornington, kissing her hand. “My condolences on your loss; my brother here tells me your husband was one of the best of his officers.”

“That is kind of His Grace to say, and kinder still of your Lordship to report,” said Elizabeth, wondering if the Earl of Mornington ever felt awkward his younger brother had vaulted over him towards a dukedom.

There did appear to be some rivalry, still; for Mornington, patting her hand in what seemed to be a consoling way, added with an air of put-upon reproach, “He did not tell me just how beautiful you are. Arthur, you shouldn't keep secrets from your family like this! Especially such pleasant ones.”

“Ha,” said Wellington, tersely.

This could not throw so practiced a roué as Mornington, who continued glibly on, not releasing Elizabeth's hand. She turned to Wellington, with raised eyebrows, when the flirtation ceased to be amusing (which was almost as soon as it started).

“I must,” Wellington interrupted, “be getting Mrs. Fitzwilliam back to her relations. I suppose I shall see you at the dinner Matlock's is holding this evening, if not in the Commons tomorrow.”

Mornington said something noncommittal, Major Lawrence appeared and private communication was at an end. Elizabeth could not help but feel hyper aware of all Wellington’s usual attentions to her. Her thoughts were incoherent, with grief and confusion and desire, and the only conclusion she reached, when she retired to bed for the evening, was that she wished Colonel Fitzwilliam had not died, for the very selfish reason that everything was so clear-cut and straightforward with him. Aside from giving him children, she had done everything a woman was supposed to do for her husband, and she had been the gainer thereby. Not only in terms of social position or wealth; she had realized her desires, and had them met, in the only context she had been taught was acceptable.

But was it?

There were more contexts and arrangements in the social sphere she had married into than had been recognized in her narrow sliver of the landed gentry.

She was distracted and tense in the Commons the next day, but so were all the Fitzwilliams. They sat rank and file, Matlock and his children (and Darcy) up front; Miss Duncan, Marjorie, and Elizabeth behind. Wellington took the seat next to Elizabeth, as was his habit, and the Arbuthnots sat to his right.

The MP from Lambton, whom old Mr. Darcy had hand-picked some years ago, introduced the bill, with a gravity and decorum that no other MP bothered to emulate.

This debate was the more amusing of the two, for the Commons was the rowdier of the houses. It was very much like going to the theatre, as everyone clapped,cheered, jeered, or booed as they were so moved. And mostly, they were moved to boo.

For two or three really dreadful hours, Elizabeth was convinced the bill would fail. The Earl of Matlock could not obviously sweep into the house and demand to know who else’s son sacrificed his life for Britain on the very gates of Hougoumont, and fumed silently on the bench before Elizabeth, Marjorie, and Mary. From time to time he would turn to Lord Stornoway, which was not a helpful exercise, and he increasingly turned to Honoria, who could offer him better information.

The awful certainty that this was not going to pass hit her like a blow from a closed fist. She felt the blood drain from her face. Wellington, who sat next to her, the Arbuthnots on his other side, turned to her and asked, softly, “Alright, my dear?”

“It's not going to pass,” said Elizabeth shakily. “It's not going to pass, and what happened to Richard— to my soulmate— I have so many friends still in the military, they shall have to go through what I did—”

Her hands were trembling; she gripped the edge of her seat. Wellington put one of his hands over hers, under one of the long trailing folds of her bombazine gown and leaned down to whisper, “Recall that battles can take several days to win, my dear. The tide will turn again before the day is out. Lady Stornoway has given some excellent dinners. Charles here—” nodding to Mr. Arbuthnot, who looked up from his conversation with his wife long enough to smile at Elizabeth “—believes the numbers are on our side. And I flatter myself I still have some influence.”

He nodded to Lord Castlereagh, the Leader of the House of Commons, as well as a friend of his, and Lord Castlereagh recognized Mr. Elliot. Darcy turned to look at Marjorie and Elizabeth, and was concerned, seeing Elizabeth pale and obviously agitated. Before he could speak however, Mr. Elliot launched into his speech.

Mr. Elliot was a very smooth orator, calm, elegant, and damnably persuasive. He settled the crowd quite admirably, and by dint of addressing only MPs who had supported the bill, at least in part, managed to imply that the debate was not whether or not the bill would pass, for surely no one thought that the Duke of Wellington, who had helped shape the bill, could be in any way wrong about what was necessary for the British Army. The debate was about how it should be implemented. Surely it was better to pass the bill now, to establish the corp, and then pass subsequent bills to reform and reformat? He then broke out a wholly unnecessary anecdote about the Duke of Wellington’s mentioning Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s mud at Lady Stornoway’s dinner party— or, at least, Elizabeth thought it unnecessary, and highly embarrassing— but when Mr. Elliot implored the other MPs, “And this, gentlemen, a widow, a respectable widow, of good birth and breeding, whose sense of delicacy and propriety is so great, she remains all in black, though her husband is gone an eight month— this lady was forced to run out into the mud like a kitchen maid, collecting bandages, for there were no men to help her, and no other supplies to be had. How can we, as a civilized nation, allow this to be the standard of the British Army?” provoked more outrage than Elizabeth would really have liked.

She had not minded assisting Colonel Dunne, and was still grateful she had been allowed to do so. To hear what had seemed to her very rational, pragmatic choices made out of necessity and a sense of duty, treated with horror by politicians who had little to no idea of what actually happened on a battlefield, or what it was women actually did there, was aggravating in the extreme. “For heaven’s sake,’ she thought. ‘Even in the fashionable regiments the wives of common soldiers helped to ferry the wounded off the field!’

She turned to look at Wellington, who was rolling his eyes, but otherwise the same cool and unflappable figure he tended to be when on public display; Darcy had glanced back at her, and seeing that Elizabeth now looked as if she had bit into a lemon, tried to hide his smile behind his hand. She glared at him.

Wellington lightly squeezed her hand, and she turned to look at him saying, “Your Grace, what exactly did you say to Mr. Elliot?”

“Nothing that he has now said to the Commons,” he replied, dryly.

Elizabeth, having entered the conversation as a useful rhetorical figure, could not now be put down. She was passed about to all the speakers thereafter, the emblem of British womanhood, forced by tragic circumstances into tasks not fit for a lady of such refinement. Sir Thomas Bertram, whom Mary Crawford despised, even got up and took the MPs soundly to task for allowing standards to so slip that good English ladies, who ought to have been safely at home, were instead forced to make up for the improper and quite shameful failings of English men, by going into battlefields like this. What was next, forcing women to pick up guns and shoot at enemy soldiers? (Elizabeth wanted badly to mention that this already happened, especially in artillery units, and was so common an occurrence Wellington had made one Spanish lady a captain of artillery during the Peninsular campaign; indeed, even Wellington let out an annoyed “tcha!” at that). But there it was, the final push to seize, once more, the mantle of patriotism from the other side! The fragility of British womanhood had been invoked, and it was sacrilege not to defend it.

The bill passed.

“I can see you laughing Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth hissed, as Lord Matlock buried his face in his hands, overcome, and Honoria put her arms about her father. Matlock’s tears discomfited and upset her; it was easier to be angry.

Darcy tried to look impassive but his mouth twitched. “I am not laughing at you, I assure you; merely the situation.”

“Oh the _situation_ , is it?” Elizabeth exclaimed. She looked to Marjorie for reinforcement, but Stornoway was embracing her with glad, dazed cries of, “We did it! We did it!”

Miss Duncan grinned at her. “Ach, ‘tis an honor to be in the presence of the personification of female delicacy. I bet your votives burn feathers and leave offerings of smelling salts to ye.”

“So fitting a portrait of me, is it not?” asked Elizabeth, with some asperity.

“I envision now,” said Miss Duncan, “a replacement of your portrait in Fitzwilliam House. Your imitation of the Lavoisiers, with your white muslin and with Colonel Fitzwilliam at his desk, will no longer do. No, you must be painted afresh, with your widow’s veil and a broad hem of mud on your bombazine gown, in a dead faint.”

Mrs. Arbuthnot dimpled charmingly and said, “Oh do paint it Miss Duncan!”

“I'm sure it'll show up in some political cartoon, soon enough,” grumbled Elizabeth.

***

She ought to be happy, Elizabeth reminded herself after dinner. She ought to rejoice in her triumph. Why then, had she run off as soon as she and Lady Catherine started rowing about Alexander the Great (how had they even gotten on that topic?). After declaring she had a sick headache, Elizabeth had retreated with a candle into the portrait gallery and now was staring fixedly at her and her husband’s portrait, in the hopes that if she did not blink her watering eyes, she would not cry. She was not sure if she was more upset over seeing her husband, as he had been, upright and half-turned to smile up at her, or at the portrait of how she had been.

It seemed years since she had been so simply, so uncomplicatedly happy; the pert figure in spangled white muslin seemed an entirely different person, a stranger, even. Elizabeth could not understand why now her temper, which had guarded her through the aftermath of the Commons and most of dinner, had flared up and out like this, leaving only a tense unhappiness in its wake. She had always been a happy, cheerful sort of creature.

“Mrs. Fitz,” came Wellington’s voice.

Elizabeth looked away from the painting, and tried to dash the tears off her cheeks with the palm of her hand.

“You really ought to investigate this wonderful new invention of ours called a handkerchief,” said he, coming up and offering her his. Elizabeth could not even manage a smile, so he stopped the attempt to tease her out of her mood and said, “Sometimes the cost of the battle only hits us after the victory. I still recall being woken in the early hours of the 19th, to be read the list of the dead.”

Elizabeth had heard of this, via military medical gossip. Colonel Pascal had known the surgeon who had been reading the list. This surgeon had been surprised to feel tears dropping fast on his hands, and looked up to see yet more, tracing dusty furrows down Wellington’s cheeks.

“I am sorry, Your Grace,” said Elizabeth, trying for a smile. “I was angry enough at Mr. Elliot’s characterization of me to stave off the worst of it but now....”

“Yes, I was rather wondering if he had ever met you, by the end of his speech.”

“A strong gust of wind could have blown that Mrs. Fitzwilliam away.” But her complaint lacked bite, and even to her own ears she sounded tired and miserable. But at least she was no longer crying; she folded up Wellington’s handkerchief and made a vague move to give it back.

Wellington observed her a moment and then said, in a tone of gentle command, “Come here, my dear.”

She acted on the tone before really parsing the words; she was enfolded in his arms before understanding his invitation.

Elizabeth was surprised at how good it felt; what comfort there was in being held by someone taller and stronger, at the feeling, however temporary, that she was safe and well-protected, guarded against the thousand slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.

“I don’t think you should be alone this evening,” said Wellington, after a moment.

Elizabeth remembered his concern for her, after Hougoumont, the surprising delicacy with which he asked if she had relatives in Brussels. Elizabeth somewhat immaturely buried her face in the lapel of his coat and said, “If I have to hear another lecture from Lady Catherine on stoicism I might scream.” She felt his laugh rather than heard it, and pulled back enough to say, more clearly, “It is not something that comes naturally to me. I know— I _know_ it is how I ought to be, but there sometimes seems so vast a gulf between what ought to be and what is, I do not know how to bridge it. I would rather be alone and allowed to grieve as I feel, than to be in company having to suppress it.”

Wellington said, kindly, “Not to worry, my dear, I won’t make you sit with your aunt-in-law.”

“Or go back to the drawing room, I hope?”

“That either. _I_ was proposing to keep you company.”

“I should be very grateful, sir,” said Elizabeth, feeling a profound rush of relief. “It is a comfort, in some ways, that you called so soon after my husband died. I cannot much disgrace myself before you. I must have looked half-wild. I do not think I even bothered to cover my mark.”

“Your appearance was the last thing on my mind that day.”

“Put in my place very neatly!”

“I meant to reassure you, my dear. I was more struck by the proof of your devotion to Colonel Fitzwilliam than your appearance. As I am now.”

Elizabeth felt better for this and indicated her willingness to quit the portrait gallery.

“Let us go to your parlor then,” said Wellington, offering her his arm. “Lady Stornoway probably cannot be spared from her guests, but your other sister-in-law, Honoria— she I think, would welcome an escape from your Aunt Catherine.”

Elizabeth managed a laugh, or something like it. Honoria and Miss Duncan were happy to use her as an excuse to leave the drawing room, and Aunt Catherine, but Elizabeth felt she made rather a poor hostess. She was not fit for any of her usual employments. Her mind was too full of grief to make conversation easy, or to let her read with anything like comprehension; her eyes were not dry enough to make any headway with her work, or to play anything but very simple and melancholic Irish airs on the instrument:

Wellington offered a round of whist, to help distract her. Honoria and Miss Duncan did not like cards, but made a valiant attempt to pretend they did. All of them seemed rather relieved when Elizabeth took pity on them all and asked Wellington for a game of _vignt-et-une,_ allowing Honoria and Miss Duncan to sit by the fire, complaining bitterly about Lady Catherine, but in an indirect way enough that they could deny they had been talking about her if need be.

Elizabeth had never played quite so badly; she was staring at the cards in her left hand, her right hand resting upon the tabletop, when Wellington reached out and put his hand over hers.

“You haven't the temperament of a gambler my dear,” he said. “Perhaps we best stop the attempt.”

“You don't either.”

“No, I am more a defensive tactician.”

“I recall your saying that the mark of a good general was knowing when to retreat and having the courage to do it.” She splayed her cards upon the table. “I give up. Basic math is beyond me. Counting to twenty-one is impossible. I hate this... this particular part of grief. I cannot do anything. When I was in Brussels, just after— that is, when I last felt like this— I couldn't even remember everyone’s addresses. I could not recall where Matlock House was in London. I feel stupid from the weight of it.”

Wellington ran his thumb lightly over her knuckles. “It will get easier in time.”

“It is rather hard to bear now.”

He studied her a moment and then said, in a voice of gentle command, “I think you need to be taken out of yourself, my dear. I’ll take you on a long ride tomorrow.”

Elizabeth was about to complain that she had not ridden since Waterloo and then, somewhat stuck by this, wondered if a lack of proper exercise was part of the reason she felt so cast down. The snow and wind had been too bad to permit much outdoor activity, and she had been too busy politicking to really have the chance to walk more than ten minutes at a time in the succession houses. She was not allowed to dance, nor would she be until her mourning ended, and with little Spencer Stornoway at Eton and her three other nieces and nephew not wanting more than a trip to the stables, she had not the opportunity to exercise in the service of their entertainment. “I should be very grateful,” said Elizabeth, thinking it over. “I have not been as active as I usually am; I think that is perhaps why this has hit me quite as hard as it did.”

Wellington agreed with her, and it did a certain amount of good to have something to look forward to— though only a certain amount. It was like half a bridge over an abyss. He continued to gently stroke her hand.

Elizabeth said, quietly, “Thank you, Your Grace. I just....”

“The loss of a soulmate is not easily got over. I know.”

“I did not expect it to be this bad again.”

“There is an ebb and flow to it, my dear. I confess, I had wondered if there might be a sudden tidal wave for you today. We have been two days going over your husband’s death in quite exhaustive detail. You have been a model of self-control, but that is strain enough to overpower anybody.”

“And I am not anybody?” Elizabeth asked, trying for a joke at her lack of reserve.

His look was warm and admiring. “I think you will know you are not.”

They fell into their usual pattern of flirtation, though it felt almost absent-minded. Elizabeth knew she was not replying with her usual spirit. She could not impertinently provoke while still pleasing; she could only smile sadly and say something that almost passed for wit. The duke’s concern for her was palpable, which heartened her some, but he seemed to know as well as she did that this was not working to cheer her.

“I am sorry, Your Grace,” she said, after a moment.

“Don't be,” he said, with a lip quirk of a smile. “I am merely an old campaigner used to throwing all I have at difficult circumstances; I must try everything before waving the white flag.” Wellington attempted this again with a smirk and a smooth, “And the temptation of flirting with you is too great to resist. I find myself giving in whenever I see you.”

Elizabeth could not yet manage a laugh but almost managed to smile. “I have been wondering, Your Grace, to what end you say these things. You see for yourself that I am not entirely over my husband.”

“No, nor do I expect you to be, or mean to push you towards anything you are not ready for. I do it mostly for my own enjoyment.”

“Mostly?”

His look was eloquent enough to make her blush.

“Sir, I....”

“I do not mean to press if the idea of it makes you uncomfortable.”

“Not... uncomfortable, sir, merely uncertain. I was married young; I do not think I kissed a man outside of parlor games until Colonel Fitzwilliam proposed to me. And then... I was married to my soulmate. I had no need or inclination to look elsewhere. I am not... I had not....”

She remembered too well the thoughts that had been occupying her for the last week. Then Elizabeth found herself wondering, ‘Oh hell, what harm would it do?’

As far as she could tell, it would harm no one, as long as she did not get accidentally pregnant. Their soulmates were both dead and beyond harm. They had no partners that might be injured. It was no evil to their part of society; indeed everyone seemed to expect it and Marjorie— Elizabeth shifted a little in her chair, uncomfortable— Marjorie had said, after the divorce, that it would be better for everyone if Wellington left off all his other affairs and just took up with a discreet widow. Elizabeth could by no means frame the sort of liaison she was contemplating as a sort of good deed, but if it was not a moral evil—

Elizabeth looked up at Wellington and felt a sudden and unexpected wave of desire sweep through her, disturbing the clawed grasp her grief had had upon her. “Your Grace,” she said, unsteadily.

His glance was warm and appreciative. “Yes, my dear.”

“I....” She blushed deeply. “I do not think what you are proposing uncommon or— or even immoral— not now, at least— for we are both unattached and without hope of seeing our soulmates again, but I— I have never done anything like this before and it....”

“My dear,” said Wellington, with an attitude of pleased surprise.

“I do not know,” said Elizabeth, uncertainly, “how one goes about....” Then, still feeling flushed and flustered, looked up at him and said, “The risks to myself are much greater, sir, and I—”

He gently squeezed her hand. “You may trust me, my dear. I shall take care of you. I respect and care for you too much to see any harm come to you out of whatever fondness you have for me.”

This settled it for her; the last of the proprieties she had learnt as a child and followed into early adulthood crumbled away. Against the guilt now trying to flood into its place, she erected Colonel Pascal’s observations, about the sheer variety of human attachment and experience, and the benefits of having a very intimate friend indeed. Elizabeth met Wellington’s eye, and said, slowly, “I trust you, Your Grace.”

After making sure Honoria and Miss Duncan were still occupied, Wellington asked, “Shall I come to you?”

Elizabeth involuntarily tightened her grip on his hand. “I— no, Your Grace. I am still in the— Colonel Fitzwilliam used to— we shared a room, Your Grace—”

He understood what she was trying to say, and continued to gently stroke her knuckles with the pad of his thumb. “I understand entirely. I’m in the room just off the staircase. The first as you turn into the guest wing.”

A hot flush rose up her chest and neck, quite different from her usual blushes. Wellington regarded its progress thoughtfully, and in his air of quiet interest, tinged with satisfaction, looked almost as if he were watching a military parade.

Elizabeth was too embarrassed to do more than blush, for a few minutes. Then she managed, “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“My dear, do not thank me for something I have wanted for some weeks now,” he said dryly.

“You know what I mean,” she said, though she was deeply flattered by the compliment. To have captured the interest and attention of so sought-after a man was no small thing, and it brightened her mood considerably— though the cheerfulness she felt was not unattended by guilt and sorrow, like two unwanted footmen following about a society lady trying to escape them to a tryst. “For letting me have my own way.”

“My dear,” he replied, smilingly, “ _I_ would not have it any other way. Your independence— and I must admit, your impudence— is its own allure.”

“I have already agreed sir, there is no reason to keep flattering me like this.”

“Your blush was beginning to fade.”

Elizabeth surprised herself with a laugh. “You are a rogue sir. I promise to blush as much as you like; indeed, I am not sure if I could help it.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

There was a warmth to his gaze that made Elizabeth feel both flustered and suddenly, achingly aware of how much she had missed being physically intimate with someone. She had not been married very long when she had been widowed; there had not been time for passion to cool, and only enough time for the general excited ignorance with which she’d first gone to the marriage bed to turn into a more thorough knowledge of what she liked and did not like. “I have decided to trust you, Your Grace. Do not make me regret it.”

“I assure you on that point, my dear,” he replied. “You will not regret this at all. I shall personally ensure it.”


	6. In which Mrs. Fitzwilliam and the Duke of Wellington come to an agreement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> goddamnshinyrock produced an absolutely amazing illustration for this fic, here: http://goddamnshinyrock.tumblr.com/image/162957867105
> 
> Many thanks, once again, to eleith, who scalded some creme anglaise in her first read-through of the first scene. Her sacrifice is not, I hope, in vain. (Also, here be your warning for adult situations involving Elizabeth and the Duke of Wellington from here on out! Know your limits! And pray be gentle, I've never attempted writing a sex scene before.)

Despite her earlier boldness, it was with a shaking hand that Elizabeth knocked on the door. Wellington opened it at the first timid rap.

It was odd to see so august a person as the Duke of Wellington, Hero of Europe, in his dressing gown. It was a far cry from his formal uniform, with all its ribbons and medals, or his usual costume of trousers, boots, plain blue coat, and star. He held open the door for her with an appreciative look, which Elizabeth found somewhat ridiculous.

She had put very little effort into her appearance, feeling too impatient to really care; she supposed the long, large, red and gold Kashmir shawl in which she had bundled herself was rather pretty, but her hair was already falling out of her sleeping braid, and her long cambric nightgown was hardly the stuff of fantasy.

“Déshabillé suits you my dear,” said Wellington, quietly shutting the door behind him.

Elizabeth looked about, unsure of where to put herself or what to do. She stood by the fire, her gaze resting lightly on the settee before her, the tidy dressing table, the used shaving things laid out by pitcher and bowl, and then flitting off again, like a bird uncertain of the best place to perch. She felt oddly touched that he had shaved for her; she had mentioned only in passing that she disliked the feeling of stubble. On the nights where Colonel Fitzwilliam had not had the time to shave, the delicacy of her own complexion had always meant that she would go about the next day looking as if she had a rash wherever he had kissed her.

Wellington locked the door and, seeing her hugging about herself the bright red shawl with its gold medallions, said, “My dear, I can merely bear you company tonight, if that is what you wish.”

Elizabeth felt herself beginning to blush despite herself, and said, “Your Grace, you must not take my hesitance for unwillingness. It is— it is merely inexperience. As I told you, I have only ever known Colonel Fitzwilliam.”

“Which reminds me—have you a way of preventing pregnancy? I doubt you have ever had to think of it before—”

Her blush deepened. “I have— to both, sir. It’s a— the morning after I make a receipt Mrs. Kirke gave me. It worked for all the years I was married, and it hasn't failed her yet.”

“Sit with me a moment, now that's settled,” said he, going to the settee. “Let’s get you comfortable.”

Elizabeth perched on the edge of the settee, really unsure how she ought to behave. She cast her mind over her married life and could find no real parallel. She was already somewhat aghast at her own boldness (Colonel Fitzwilliam had always come to her), and embarrassed to have been so obvious about her need. Though, she thought, holding the shawl closed before her breast, it was not _need_. It was want. Pure want.

“A bit closer, my dear,” said Wellington, amused.

She slid closer to him until her knee brushed his, and then looked at him uncertainly.

Wellington reached out and gently pushed a loose strand of hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear. His fingertips lingered in her hair, softly stroked it in reassurance. “How lovely you are,” he murmured.

“Your Grace is very kind.”

“His Grace is stating a fact,” he replied, smiling. “May I kiss you, Mrs. Fitz?”

“I should very much like that, Your Grace,” she admitted.

He slid his fingertips down her jaw to her chin, and tilted her face up in order to kiss her— lightly, gently— almost a brush of lips rather than a kiss proper. Until she grew easy with this, and began to kiss him back, he did not otherwise touch her. He ventured then to move his hand from her chin, to stroke her jawline and the side of her neck, easing away the tension gathered there from anxiety and nerves and grief. She shifted a little, so that Wellington’s fingers trailed over the nape of her neck. This calmed her, as it always did. Wellington noticed this and stroked her there more deliberately.

Elizabeth felt a little like a cat, being gently petted into trust and good humor and could not help a smile at such a spurt of absurdity; this formed a bubble of sudden giddiness as the thought, ‘I am kissing the bloody Duke of Wellington,’ drifted through her mind.

“Good, my dear?” he murmured against her lips.

She made a faint noise of agreement and felt herself relax. His touch and kiss alike were light and careful, but very sure; he did not rush, but each time she felt a vague longing for more and shifted, unsure how to signal this, he would advance. The intense satisfaction of having her wants supplied as soon as she began to feel them had their effect. Elizabeth shivered when he moved his left hand from the top of the settee and threaded it through her hair.

“Are you cold, my dear?” he asked, pulling back slightly.

She favored him with an unamused look. “Sir, you know perfectly well I am not.”

“Good,” he said, moving his left hand from the nape of her neck to the top of her shawl. “For, pretty as this is, I think you could possibly do without it.”

Elizabeth looked down, a little surprised to still be holding it closed, and loosened her grip. The edges of the shawl parted. Wellington slid it off her shoulders. It pooled about her hips, the gold medallions winking at her, as if in encouragement. He traced the fall of her shawl down her arms, until she shivered again and he said, in a tone of considerable satisfaction, “My dear Mrs. Fitzwilliam, you really cannot stand the cold, can you? Do allow me to warm you.”

He put his arms about her waist, dragging her closer until she was pressed against him. Elizabeth, a little startled, put her hands to his chest, but tilted her face up to be kissed again. Wellington obliged her.

It had been a very long time since she'd had the liberty to touch a man so. She tentatively ran her hands over his chest, until she gathered enough courage and momentum to seize the belt of his dressing gown and undo it. With a skill she felt a little nonplussed to discover he possessed, Wellington managed to shrug off his dressing gown without halting their kiss.

‘You knew he was a rake of the first water,’ she chided herself, ‘does any of this come as a surprise?’ It certainly did not shock her when he turned his attention to the buttons down the front of her night rail.

“I would prefer to keep it on,” Elizabeth said, feeling herself blush again. “It is very stupid scruple but it seems less... immodest this way.”

“And you deny having any sense of feminine delicacy,” he teased her.

“Not a great deal,” she replied, trying for boldness, “for I am willing to be unbuttoned.”

Wellington lost no time, and looked appreciatively at the expanse of breast revealed. “May I touch?”

“You may touch whatever you like, Your Grace.”

“By God, Mrs. Fitz,” he said admiringly, taking immediate advantage of this new privilege, “you do have the prettiest figure.”

“I am glad it pleases you, Your Grace,” Elizabeth replied, a little breathlessly, and closed her eyes when he bent his head to kiss her breasts. She threaded her hand through his short hair and sighed, rising pleasure driving away the last of the tense misery that had filled her the last few days. Why on earth, she thought dazedly, had she ever thought she ought not to do this? She had missed this so badly. And she really should have guessed that a man with a reputation as a rake would be was good enough at this particular act to convince numerous women to defy the rules of propriety to make love to him. Elizabeth was certainly glad to have defied the rules of propriety.

When she began to arch against him, Wellington raised his head and put a hand to each thigh. He parted them with a quiet, “May I?”

Elizabeth nodded.

The first touch came as so profound a relief she tilted her head back with a soft groan. She felt almost embarrassingly eager for him but when she made a vague attempt at an apology at how obviously she wanted him, he chuckled and asked just why she was apologizing for paying him such a compliment. Elizabeth felt a few faint twinges of self-consciousness of having his hand between her legs, but after a few minutes experimentation, he hit on a movement and rhythm that made her breath catch in her throat, and she began to be too full of pleasure to feel anything else. He put his free hand to her hair, pulling it out of its messy braid, and tangled his fingers in the loose strands as he kissed her.

She sighed against his lips. This she knew and was familiar with; she liked to be held while being caressed. He seemed to sense this, for when she began to squirm against him, he held her in place, and whispered in her ear, mock-chidingly, “Now, now, my dear. Steady on.”

This was new to her but it thrilled her. She half-gasped for breath; his grip about her tightened, but his caress did not alter as the tension built deliciously and then peaked. She fell headlong into pleasure. The feeling was almost unbearably good; she could not help pressing more fully against him, savoring each luxurious sensation.

“There you go,” he said, with satisfaction.

Elizabeth sank in boneless relaxation against Wellington’s iron grip about her, still enjoying the last faint tremors of her release. He bent down and kissed her through the last of these.

She had not felt so safe, or so fully relaxed, in a very long time. It was a long and idle kiss, soothing rather than stirring.

“Have another one in you?” he asked.

“Usually once is enough for me,” said Elizabeth, still a little out of breath.

“Indulge me, my dear?” He seemed to be petting her out of absence of mind rather than determined pursuit of pleasure, which Elizabeth found she rather liked. She felt cozily well-looked after; even rather drowsy and content, and might have drifted off, if Wellington had not bent down and kissed her again. If she had been with Colonel Fitzwilliam she would have joked about the kiss that woke sleeping beauty but this seemed a mismatch; she tried to push memories of her husband from her mind and kissed Wellington back determinedly.

He pulled back and lifted an eyebrow.

“If you _insist_ , sir,” said Elizabeth, airily.

He did and carried his point, until Elizabeth became quite desperate for him. Wellington teased her in response, until she felt she could no longer bear it, and managed a tormented, “Your Grace, please!”

He did not stop kissing her, but moved his hand to grip her thigh and pulled her onto his lap, so that she straddled him. Elizabeth was wildly impatient for him but could not yet bring herself to do more than put her arms about his neck and press against him.

“Just a moment,” he said, arranging their clothing to his satisfaction before slowly easing into her.

Elizabeth stifled a gasp.

“Alright, my dear?”

“It— it has been a while,” Elizabeth admitted, holding herself very still. “I've grown a little... unaccustomed to it.”

He was still gripping her hips, the cambic of her nightgown bunched in his hands, and lessened his hold on her. The cambric fell in crumpled folds down to the seat of the settee.  “Go at your pace, my dear. You're the rider after all.”

Elizabeth’s face flamed.

He laughed and stroked one hot cheek with the backs of his fingers, the other hand still at her waist. “Such modesty in the face of such immodest situations. I must shock you terribly.”

“Startle, not shock, sir,” corrected Elizabeth, bracing her hands against his shoulders. “I _was_ married. And ladies are as capable of crudity as men. We just hide it from you, out of deference to your sensibilities.” She began carefully lowering herself down, to his evident satisfaction; and rested flush against him, trying to adjust to so pleasant a sensation, so familiar and yet at the same time, so strangely different. To compare this to what she had shared with her husband seemed absurd, but it was her only frame of reference— and yet the ways both gentlemen went about making love to her were so different in approach there wasn't enough similarity to make any kind of a coherent thesis. And then he was kissing her again, with enough force and skill to drive rational thought entirely from her head.

Before she began to feel entirely incoherent, she managed a vague, “Oh sir— this feels—” He reached between them to touch her and she could not help a little cry of pleasure. “Oh, Your Grace!”

“That's it, my dear,” he murmured against her neck, as she gripped his shoulders and began moving against him more eagerly.

“Is it... are you...?”

He let out a soft groan as she sank down fully once again. “Chase your pleasure, darling; I am sure I shall find mine along the way.”

Wellington proved not only helpful, but eager to help her figure out how to do so. He had already discovered how to touch her and how to speak to her, in order to drive her quite wild, and it was in seeing her lose her inhibitions and take charge that he began to lose control himself. His touch quickened, his breathing grew ragged. She pressed against him more tightly, the gaping collar of her night rail sliding off her shoulders, to his evident pleasure. Elizabeth did not know if it was the welcome feeling of his spending within her that caused her to reach her peak herself, or if it was the desperate kiss she gave him as she felt her own peak approaching that caused him to reach his, but either way, the sensation was to Elizabeth exquisite. She had forgotten how much better this was with another person; she had forgotten how the intimacy of heart and mind could so combine with that of the body as to make one feel utterly satiated and cared for, to make one feel as if one could die from the pleasure of something, and yet be brought back to oneself feeling fully renewed.

She clung to him for some time, in a daze, as he stroked her hair and held her close.

Eventually Elizabeth came back to herself enough to raise her head and say, “Good _God_ , Your Grace.”

“Always happy to please,” Wellington replied, amused, twirling a loose curl of her hair about his index finger. He kissed her once again and said, “I cannot quite bring myself to part with you yet. Will you stay a little longer?”

“I am not sure I can do this again,” she admitted. She felt deliciously tired.

He chuckled. “I had in mind the more innocent definition of sleeping.”

She shifted her head only enough to bring the bed within her line of sight, and blushed to admit she wasn't entirely sure her legs could even carry her that far.

“You do know how to pay a man a pretty compliment,” said Wellington, smirking.

 

***

 

“Mrs. Fitz, my dear.”

Elizabeth groggily opened her eyes, unclear what was going on, and feeling the sort of hazy disorientation that accompanies a night spent in a room not one’s own. Her first, sleep-addled thought was to be sure she had not accidentally drooled on the nightshirt of the Hero of Europe, and stealthily slid her hand under her cheek. Once sure of this, she asked, “Yes, Your Grace?”

He still had an arm curved about her back, his hand resting on her right hip. He idly tapped there as he asked, “When is the servant's’ bell?”

“Six.”

“Ah. It is now gone five. Loathe as I am to part with you, I really must see about getting you back in your own bed.”

Elizabeth felt very ill-inclined to go back to a probably cold and certainly empty bed. She made a grumbling noise and tucked herself closer against Wellington’s side.

He tapped her hip again. “Fallen out of the habit of marching at dawn, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Best get back in it. Come on. I'll carry you if I have to.”

Elizabeth maneuvered her left arm, which had been pinned awkwardly beneath her, to try and push herself up, but it had fallen asleep. She muttered one of the soldier’s oaths she generally pretended not to know.

“And thus the model of fragile British womanhood begins her day.”

Elizabeth answered him with a glare.

Wellington laughed, sat up, and set her to rights before going over the the settee and picking up her shawl. This he draped about her shoulders, as if helping her with her cloak. “Still up for a ride? I’ve promised to breakfast with the Arbuthnots, but I’ve no other commitments.”

“I suppose,” said Elizabeth, stifling a yawn. “I'm a bit sore.”

Wellington did not seem displeased to hear this, but made apologetic noises anyhow.

“I am sure you are _very_ sorry,” said Elizabeth drily.

“As long as you are not riding astride again, I daresay you will not be unduly pained.”

“You are a rogue, sir.”

“Shan't fool me, Mrs. Fitz,” he said, seizing her hand and kissing it. “I am well aware you like it when I am.” Then, his expression soft, he said, “I'm damned glad you came to me. I haven't had so pleasurable an evening in some time. Now—” releasing her hand “—off you get, my dear. I'll see you later.”

She managed to get back to her room without incident and slept until ten, resisting nearly all of Mrs. Pattinson’s attempts to wake her. But, at last, she was pulled out of her nightgown and put into a black riding habit, the tangles and elfknots from her hair were brushed out, and she herself was sent down the stairs. Elizabeth made a brief detour to the stillroom, where she made probably too much fuss about checking her orange wine, and then somewhat guiltily followed the receipt Mrs. Kirke had given her for the prevention of pregnancy. Still, the guilt was easily got over. She felt a happy glow of contentment, and a welcome absence of tension. Elizabeth could not call herself perfectly happy, for the shadow of loss still followed her, but she could honestly tell Honoria, when she came into breakfast, that she felt tolerably cheerful.

“Aye, you seem in much better spirits,” agreed Honoria. “Come from a ride?”

“Going on one, after breakfast,” said Elizabeth, taking a seat by Miss Duncan. She had been carrying her hat, gloves, and riding crop and deposited these informally on the table. “His Grace said a lack of exercise was probably aggravating my distemper, and I think he was probably right.”

Miss Duncan made a vague noise of assent. Miss Duncan was never at her best in the mornings; she required at least two pots of tea to feel resigned to being awake.

Elizabeth looked about to see if Wellington had returned from the Arbuthnots, trying not to be too obvious, but Honoria misinterpreted her look and said, with a smile, “We are a little short in numbers today. Papa celebrated a little too much last evening. He is taking his breakfast in bed.”

Stornoway choked on his tea and, attempting to put on the dignity he thought he ought to have as Future Head of the Family, said, “Come, come Honoria.”

“Ah yes, I spoke unwisely; he is not taking in any breakfast at all,” said Honoria.

Her brother struggled with himself, but could not help smiling as he said, “Well and who can blame him! It was a difficult thing and we brought it off despite everything. Lord, with the—” he checked for Wellington, and mouthed the words ‘Wellington divorce’ “—it was a close-run thing!” He turned to Marjorie, who was sorting through the morning post. “My dear, really, you were magnificent! Imagine, turning what could have been society’s greatest scandal since the Delicate Investigation into Princess of Wales’s affairs, into such a triumph! For a time, I was convinced neither Wellington would be received anywhere, the Anglo-Allied Army would fall to pieces, Europe would be plunged into war again— but no, if anything, the common people like Wellington more than ever, for being gallant enough to step aside in the face of true love.”

“And the aristocracy marvels at how neatly disaster was averted,” said Honoria, more cynical.

Stornoway thought this a compliment rather than a commentary, and nodded, saying, “I really thought we were run aground, but Marjorie, my darling, you steered us away from... the rock and the whirlpool. Blast, it’s been too long since Cambridge.”

“Scylla and Charybdis,” supplied Elizabeth, spreading a thick layer of marmalade on her toast.

“That’s them!”

Marjorie smiled and said, “Thank you, my lord! I will admit to being rather pleased with how things all shook out. They ended more to our advantage than I really could have anticipated. And I must pass on my thanks to the other ladies of the house. Miss Duncan, thank you for taking over the charity baskets and things while I was busy with all these dinners. Honoria, I am grateful to you for helping to secure the votes of the equal rights activists. Mrs. Fitzwilliam— my dear, I really couldn’t have done it without the model of English feminine delicacy and propriety!”

Elizabeth blushed. She had not behaved very delicately or properly since having been declared so in the commons. “I wish you would not echo Mr. Elliot,” said she, as Honoria and Miss Duncan laughed uproariously. “I was ready to go jump in a mud puddle just to prove him wrong.”

“But still,” said Marjorie, “without you, we would not have had Wellington. And if you hadn’t persuaded Lord Darcy to come to dinner, and dragged Mrs. Willoughby to your Tuesday teas, we might not have salvaged Wellington’s reputation. But we have, and used it spectacularly to our advantage. Here is a letter for you from Mrs. Bingley, by the by.” Marjorie passed it down the table, and handed out other letters.

Honoria took the opportunity to lean towards Elizabeth and say, encouragingly, “I’m very glad to see you in better spirits. I was quite worried about you when Dora and I retired for the evening, but there is nothing that cannot be cured by a good night’s sleep, followed by fresh air and exercise.”

There were, in fact, many things that sleep, fresh air, and exercise could not cure. Septicemia was one of them. Elizabeth stuffed the last of her toast into her mouth, to avoid the temptation of saying so.

Stornoway, trying to be kind, looked up from his letter and said, “I was... I felt surprisingly sad too, Mrs. Fitzwilliam. Rather a foolish thing, I know, when everything went so well but... I don’t quite know.”

“It was... hard,” said Elizabeth, haltingly, her blushes fading, “to have one of the most acutely painful moments of one’s life dissected by committee. Harder, too, to be reminded so publicly of all that we lost at Hougoumont.”

Stornoway looked relieved she had said so. “Yes— yes that’s it. One’s of course glad that one’s brother should be so recognized but—” he struggled with himself for long enough for Honoria to notice it.

“It’s alright Julian,” said Honoria, gruffly. “You’d rather have him be alive, than recognized.”

Stornoway set down his letter and tried to smile. “Awfully foolish thing.”

Honoria stood and put an arm about his shoulders. “Awfully human. I miss my brother, too. I _ought_ to have two. It doesn’t feel right, being second eldest. It makes everything feel unbalanced.”

“It does,” said Stornoway, reaching up to put his hand over hers. “I spent most of the debate wishing Richard was there to explain things. But he couldn’t, he was at the center of it and... somehow _not_.”

“I know,” said Honoria, quietly. “It’s alright Julian, I know.”

Miss Duncan made an uncertain move to get up, but Marjorie very slightly raised her hand and lowered her hand, telling her to sit. Elizabeth busied herself breaking the seal of Jane’s letter, thinking, ‘I really cannot recall the last time Honoria and Stornoway talked to each other, let alone embraced.’ She skimmed her letter without taking much in, before alarming phrases jumped out at her: ‘Luddite’, ‘mill on fire,’ ‘Charles gone from home several days now,’ and read the letter with better attention. She scarcely noticed the entrance of Darcy and Boatswain, absorbed as she was in her letter.

When he took his usual place beside her, Elizabeth managed to pull herself from her letter and offer a distracted greeting or two.

“Wellington is not here?” asked Darcy.

“He is breakfasting with the Arbuthnots,” replied Elizabeth.

“He meant to live partly with them, did he not, while the Jacksons were at Apsley House?”

“Yes,” said Marjorie, “but with the bill and all, it was more convenient for him to be here. I suppose he may go stay with them until he goes back to France.”

Darcy was satisfied with this answer. Elizabeth felt a little distressed at the idea of Wellington’s going so soon away, and found her thoughts drifting back to the evening previous.

“You seem thoughtful, Mrs. Fitzwilliam,” said Darcy.

“Hm?”

Darcy smiled a little and said, “You need not look so conscious; the same thoughts have been occupying me this morning.”

Elizabeth sincerely hoped not; she had been thinking of how much she'd liked kissing the Duke of Wellington.

“I had a letter from Bingley last night,” said Darcy, pulling a letter from his waistcoat pocket. “I imagine it carries the same news your sister sent you.”

“Oh, yes!” Elizabeth seized upon this excuse with alacrity and took the opportunity to hide her face in her letter. “I beg your pardon, I only— ah, here it is. ‘But I do not wish to alarm you. I daresay matters can be resolved, of both sides can be made to understand one another. At present I cannot see how that is to be done, which worries both Mr. B and myself.’ It is not a paragraph to soothe an agitated spirit.”

“If the Bingleys are worried about something,” said Darcy, “the rest of us should be terrified.”

“I cannot deny your interpretation of events, sir. But I know so little of what is happening in the north; all our concern at Matlock House has been for the Earl’s bill. I know _of_ Luddites, but I am ashamed to say I do not really understand their concerns, or why they have chosen to set fire to one of Mr. Bingley's mills. I cannot think him an exploitative, or a cruel man.”

“No, but he is mostly a silent partner. He has his father’s shares of the business, but no direct hand in its day to day operations, unless there is a very large scale problem, such as this. I cannot give you an answer as to why the mill was set alight, but my part of Derbyshire has few factories, as of yet. Mining tends to supplements farm work about Pemberley.”

“I feel I should offer to go to Mrs. Bingley, but I confess, I do not like the idea of inserting myself into a situation where I do not know any of the particulars and have no understanding of the problem. That is— I find myself in such a situation often enough, but it is generally involuntary. And I do not know if I would be a help or a hinderance, and I am rather afraid if I am the latter, the Bingleys will pretend I am the former.”

Darcy smiled a little. “That seems a very accurate characterization of your sister.”

“And not her husband?”

“Bingley has asked for my help outright; I am to Derbyshire tomorrow morning.”

“Will you bear a letter to Jane for me, then? I have one started, I only need ten minutes to add a response to her latest.”

“Of course.”

Elizabeth was at some pains to write out a paragraph that managed to express her willingness to come stay with Jane, if she would be of help, while still giving Jane the excuse of Elizabeth’s obligations to her in-laws to reject the offer, if Elizabeth would be in the way. A copy of Sir Walter Scott’s latest novel, a couple of bottles of unfinished orange wine from the stillroom, a length of India muslin she had gotten for an astonishing five shillings a yard, and a wooden tiger on wheels Elizabeth had purchased on a whim for Jenny completed the whole of her offerings to her sister.

“I am sure you forgot a carriage rug and an antique vase,” said Honoria, dryly, as Elizabeth piled all these things before Darcy.

“Do not tempt her,” said Darcy, almost joking.

“I sent Mrs. Pattinson to find a suitable basket; it shall not crowd you and Boatswain unduly. Or you can put it on the roof, or with the other trunks.”

Boatswain thumped his tail on the rug, happy to have been noticed.

She was feeding some leftover ham to Boatswain when Wellington came strolling in. Elizabeth could scarcely get up the courage to meet his eye, fearful she would betray herself with another blush, and busied herself with the dog as she called her greetings. She fancied his saying her name before the others of the party bore some significance, but she was too embarrassed, and too conscious of Darcy’s general disapproval of Wellington to do anything else.

This did not discomfit Wellington; he brought news of the Tory reaction to the bill from the Arbuthnots and was eager to discuss it. This conversation occupied mostly Marjorie and Honoria, though Stornoway attempted to keep up and Miss Duncan looked politely interested. Elizabeth chatted idly with Darcy about how she might come to Derbyshire if Jane had need of her, but, worried at what construction Wellington might put on her desire to leave London, added, deliberately, in a lull in the other conversation, “But all this supposes I might be of use to Jane, which I am not sure I will be. I had rather remain in London, in general, and especially if I am only going to be a burden to her.”

“I shall endeavor to find out if Mrs. Bingley would be sincere in her desire for your company, or merely polite,” said Darcy.

“I wish you the very best of luck in phrasing it neutrally, for as soon as Jane thinks you are hinting at your own preferences, one way or another, she will adopt them as her own.”

“I hope your sister is not ill,” said Miss Duncan.

“Oh no, she is in perfectly good health. Her husband is away on complicated business, merely. Darcy goes to assist him.”

“Oh you cannot leave London now!” exclaimed Marjorie.

“I was not planning on it,” said Elizabeth, “merely offering, though I must admit, my own preference is to remain. If London is this cold, I daresay I shall freeze to death in Derbyshire. It is selfish, but there it is.” She could not help a quick glance across the table, to where Wellington sat; he caught her eye and smiled slightly. This startled an answering smile out of her, and she turned back to Boatswain before she could blush.

“Mrs. Bingley must spare you,” insisted Marjorie. “For there is still the question of the Elgin Marbles to be brought before Parliament. I very firmly believe they ought to be returned, but that is currently an unpopular opinion. It shall take rather a lot of visits to change hearts and minds, and I really cannot do without you. That is, unless you think we ought to keep the marbles, in which case, I shall happily pack you off to Derbyshire, and hope you _do_ freeze there!” There arose a general chuckle at this. “What do you think of them Lizzy? I know you went to see them.”

Elizabeth agreed that she thought it very odd the acropolis should be so denuded, for the benefit of a public who really did not care about them.

Darcy asked, perhaps a little pointedly, what Wellington's opinion on this was, given that he had secured a number of famous Spanish paintings from “King” Joseph Bonaparte’s baggage train during the Peninsular War.

“And I shall be glad to give them back, if the Spanish Crown would ever answer my letters,” he replied. “I hate to speak ill of our allies, but I have never seen such disorganisation, before or since. Mrs. Fitz, were you in Spain for the battle of Talavera?”

“No, Your Grace, but my husband complained of the difficulties in getting the Spanish there.”

Before they could enter into their usual conversation over past battles, Mrs. Pattinson appeared with the promised basket, and Elizabeth busied herself with filling it.

“Thank you again, Darcy,” she said.

“It is really nothing,” he replied.

“I hope so; I hate to put you to any trouble, after all your kindness to me.”

“I will be coming back to London a little before Easter,” he said, a little at random, “to bring Georgiana back to Pemberley.”

“You are welcome to leave her with us for the whole season,” said Marjorie. “We shall be more at home than we usually are; I dare say Georgiana will not find it quite so intimidating as she did in other years.”

“Georgiana is to stay with us then?” asked Honoria. “I thought she was with Lizzy’s family.”

“She is, but they will visit London at the end of February and will be bringing Georgiana with them.”

“Our sister Arabella and her family will be here then, too, won't they?” Lord Stornoway asked, frowning.

“We shall be rather a full house,” said Marjorie, “but only for a few days. Arabella's spending only three weeks with us, before going onto Scotland with Honoria and Miss Duncan.”

“Aye,” muttered Miss Duncan. “With both her bairns.” This prospect clearly did not thrill her.

“Will we have the pleasure of your company as well, Your Grace?” asked Marjorie. “I believe I speak for us all when I say that I hope you will stay with us for as long as you like, whether the Jacksons have possession of Apsley House or not.”

“I will most likely be in France by then,” said Wellington, “but I will have to return to London some time next month.”

The idea of Wellington’s soon being in France distressed her even more than the idea of his removing to the Arbuthnots’ lodgings. Elizabeth knew Wellington had stayed longer in London for her sake, and the sake of the RAMC bill, than he had initially planned, but this was not much consolation.

“Let us know the date and we shall prepare the rooms for you,” said Marjorie. “But I am keeping everybody, now. Have a safe journey, Darcy!”

The other Fitzwilliams bid Darcy adieu, as did Elizabeth, who had put down fork and knife in favor of gloves and hat.

Darcy said to her, “I hope you will write to me, as you write to Georgiana.”

“Of course I will! Though I will refrain from sending _you_ receipts for mulberry wine, as I do with her.”

“Do not censor yourself,” said Darcy, still smiling. “I can send you a receipt for Mrs. Reynolds’s spruce beer in return.”

“As you wish, sir.” Elizabeth finished pinning on her hat and pulling on her gloves by the time Wellington saw what she was about and came round the table to help her out of her chair. Darcy rose to go, but Boatswain put his head beseechingly into Elizabeth’s lap.

“Oh alright,” she said, giving him a last bit of ham. “Greedy thing.”

Wellington was fond of dogs and held his hand out to Boatswain who, somewhat uncharacteristically, decided to ignore the chance to make a new friend to try and run straight through the Hero of Europe, in order to reach his master. Very few men could stand in the way of twelve stone of determined Newfoundland dog; Wellington was very nearly bowled over.

“My apologies,” said Darcy, in the doorway, not sounding in the least sorry.

“I ought to know better than to stand between dog and master,” said Wellington, brushing himself off. “My fault there.”

“As you say, sir.” Darcy bowed and departed, Boatswain trotting devotedly at his heels.

Wellington raised his eyebrows but decided not to pursue this. He offered his arm to Elizabeth.

She was both pleased and embarrassed and talked in a desultory way about the weather until they were in the stables. There was, she fancied, a slight consciousness on both their parts when one of the grooms led her horse around to the mourning block, but Wellington had apparently decided to claim all the socially acceptable excuses to touch her (since the night previous he had claimed many of the ones entirely improper to claim) and lifted her onto her horse himself.

“Thank you, sir,” she managed to say, without blushing.

“Comfortable enough?”

She shot him a warning look, as the groom turned to bring out Copenhagen, and said, drily, “Your Grace is kind to inquire again, but it is not unmanageable.”

Wellington mounted his own horse, and they rode out. It was cold but sunny, and the wind was not bad. Though she preferred walking to riding, a brisk gallop about St. James’s Park was enough of an exertion to leave her out of breath but happy. Her spirits rose again, a sense of glowing well-being still seemed settled under her skin, and she was on the verge of an extremely inappropriate remark about being unsure which ride had done her more good.

When they slowed, she found she did not know how to begin speaking with him privately, now that their relationship had undergone so material a change. Wellington saw this and turned to her with an idle, blasé, “You seem more cheerful, my dear.”

“Oh rather,” she said. “Very much thanks to you, Your Grace."

Seeing a mutual friend of theirs, he tipped his hat and contented himself with a mild, “I am very glad to hear it. I would go to considerably more trouble to see you happy.”

“How very gallant,” she said dryly.

“Terribly so. All those cartoons shoving me into Arthurian legend has had their effect.”

Elizabeth laughed.

“I missed that,” Wellington said, somewhat abruptly. “You were always laughing, before.” She knew he meant ‘before Waterloo,’ and was glad he had not actually spoken the word aloud. “I am glad to hear you laughing once more.”

Elizabeth felt absurdly touched. “I had little cause to.” It felt like leaping over an unknown hedge to admit, “I— I am not sure what happens next, or what I ought to be doing.”

Wellington, an expert rider, pulled his horse closer to hers and gently steered them both onto a more deserted path. When he seemed reasonably sure they were alone (though still decorously followed by a groom, some twenty feet behind them), he replied, “Well my dear, as long as it makes you happy, I suggest you continue coming to see me.”

She could not quite help her laugh, as she met his eye, but then turned her attention back to the path. “I suppose I shall, then— but how long will that be feasible? I thought you were to divide your time with us and the Arbuthnots.”

“Matlock House is much more to my liking,” he said, with a warmly appreciative look.

“And are you not needed in France? Last I heard, you had left an army there.”

“True, but I think I can spare another se’enight. And....” A flash of irritability. “Mr. Knightley and Mr. Thorpe are still working out what debts of my ex-wife’s I am legally obligated to discharge. Or rather, they are still struggling to discover what those debts _are_. Until they can determine who the most pressing creditors are and whether I or Mr. Jackson must pay them, I cannot in good conscience leave. I should hate for my boys to be terrified by bailiffs seizing the furniture while I am in France.” He added, with an annoyed noise, “It was Mr. Knightley’s opinion, only two days ago, that I might have to return to England next month to settle more of the debts. It would take him that long to puzzle them all out.”

“Well,” said Elizabeth, with a sidelong glance, “I hope you heard Marjorie saying that you are welcome to stay at Matlock House at any time.”

He snorted. “You almost make hope my ex-wife’s debts are tangled enough to require my returning to England every month.”

“You _would_ always find a welcome,” said Elizabeth.

“As long as your cousin Darcy will be in Derbyshire,” he replied. “Grim fellow. And he doesn’t seem to like me much.”

“No,” said Elizabeth, half-laughing. “He does not care for rakes, in general.”

“And in the particular?”

“Oh,” said Elizabeth, looking heavenward, “Miss Crawford had a _bon mot_ about it, but I cannot recall it. The jist of it was that Darcy takes a special objection to you because he was the executor of Richard’s will, and therefore holds himself responsible for me. Clearly, if he is not on constant guard I shall be seduced.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Bit late for that.”

Elizabeth tried to fight off a laugh, without much success. “Well, yes, but— you know what he fears. Every month it’s the plot of half-a-dozen new novels and ballads. I shall remove myself from my father-in-law’s house, be rejected by you once you have had your pleasures, and then be condemned to the demi-monde, end up a courtesan, and die in penury of a consumption.”

“Pish and tosh,” said Wellington. “There’s a world of difference between a liaison and a seduction.”

“How do you define the difference?” He seemed a little surprised at her question, perhaps taking it as censure, and Elizabeth quickly added, “I am rather a newcomer to this part of the world; I should hate to embarrass myself with the wrong language.”

“Do you use the two interchangeably?”

“No— ‘liaison’ always sounded to me rather secretive and aristocratic, and gave me the impression of clever people plotting. ‘Seduction’ was a horrid, common word, overused by my mother and her sister, and always carried with it an air of general ignorance or mismanagement.”

“You have the right of it, my dear. I tend to think of the first as an arrangement between two consenting adults who know what they are about. It bears nothing in common to a seduction, as society uses the term, except that the two people involved are unmarried.”

“But does any seducing go on in a liaison?”

“You would be better poised to answer that than myself.”

She managed to keep from blushing by laughing. “I think, too, a seduction usually means a woman is tricked somehow. I do not _think_ I was tricked, though I suppose you would be the last person to tell me if I was.”

“Dear girl,” Wellington said, with mock severity, “you are the one person in the world with whom I am entirely honest; indeed the only person with whom I _can_ be, and still be understood. Don't start thinking I will pay you in Spanish coin, or that I have some nefarious ends in mind.”

Elizabeth looked over at him with a smile. “I did not think so; it does not suit your character.”

“You like to sketch characters, as I recall.”

“Yes, rather an amusing hobby, and a portable one. I may do it anywhere.”

“And have you taken my character?”

“I think I have rather a good likeness, yes.”

“Heavens,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Having seen your attempt at Tipu’s Tiger, I tremble to think of it.”

“You shouldn't, for I am much better at sketching character than actual objects! I think I have a very good likeness—or, at least, I like the attempt I have made to capture it.”

“That sounds more accurate. Has your sketch of my character any overlap with your Cousin Darcy’s?”

“A rogue you certainly are, Beau Wellesley, but if you are a rake it is out of a Restoration comedy, not a Hogarth print on the dangers of debauchery. You don't like drinking or gambling, and get too irritable when people are incompetent, or derelict in their duty.”

Wellington snorted, amused. “You unman me, quite, with such a compliment. I hope I am more along the lines of Wellbred to Pinchwife.”

“Oh, sir! I would never accuse you of being anything but a gentleman.” There fell a brief pause;  Elizabeth said, consideringly, “I have put a great deal of trust in you, Your Grace, but I do not think it is misplaced.”

He smiled at her, softly, and rather fondly. “Nor is it, my dear Mrs. Fitz. There is no danger of our fulfilling your Cousin Darcy’s worst fears. You would no more remove from your father-in-law’s house than I would try to make you quit it. We’re both too sensible for that.”

“Yes, I should think so.”

“That,” he said, more seriously, “and I meant what I said to you last night. I respect and care for you too much to see you in any way degraded by your attachment to me.”

This put Elizabeth into a very cheerful mood, and her spirits were only bolstered by Miss Duncan’s new plan to avoid Lady Catherine.

“I'll poison her tea if I have to see the auld witch before dinner,” she’d muttered, armed with paints and palette brush. “So I am going to paint ye into some kind of protest against the Elgin marbles.”

Miss Duncan existed on the nebulous border between professional and amateur painter, in that she could very well have made her living as a miniaturist and probably would have, had she not fallen in love with Honoria and been required to give up any kind of profession. The rather grudging acknowledgement Miss Duncan received in return for her sacrifice did not, in Elizabeth’s opinion, seem always worth it, and so Elizabeth always made a point of asking after Miss Duncan’s latest projects, and assisting in them when she could. She agreed to the plan with alacrity and asked only what she ought to wear.

“Ach,” said Miss Duncan, breaking out into a rare smile, “afeared I’ll take Mrs. Arbuthnot’s advice and paint you in mourning, with a broad hem of mud, all in a dead swoon before the denuded Parthenon? Never fear. I’ve asked you particularly because you went as Athena to Marjorie’s last fancy dress ball. D’ye still have the costume?”

“I fear my armor might be rather dented, for it was made by me out of papier-mache and foil, instead of by Hephaestus out of Gorgon’s heads and pure gold, but I have the gown still.”

Elizabeth was extremely disgruntled to realize that she had put on so much weight, she barely fit into her pleated linen imitation chiton.

“Well, madame,” said Mrs. Pattinson, bringing out a set of more formal long stays, to see if they would be of more help, “you aren’t riding all over the Peninsula on starvation rations anymore. You only went riding for the first time in eight months this morning.” Mrs. Pattinson took the flexible short-stays Elizabeth generally wore during the day and asked, “And how was your ride, madame?”

Elizabeth struggled not to blush. “Very pleasant. I anticipate repeating the exercise as long as Lord Wellington is in England.”

“Very good, madame,” said Mrs. Pattinson, well satisfied.

The breastplate, helmet, and gauntlets turned out to still be in workable order, and her first caller that afternoon, Colonel Pascal, found her trying to pretend a broomstick was a spear in the small sitting room that served as Miss Duncan’s London studio.

“Hm,” said he, looking over Miss Duncan’s shoulder. “Must she hold a spear? I do not think it is the most natural thing in the world for Mrs. Fitzwilliam.”

Miss Duncan removed the pencil she was holding between her teeth as she erased something, and stuck it through the braided bun at the back of her head. “I suppose not, but I cannae vera well have her holding up a book and looking arch. They didn’t have books then. And anyhow, she’s supposed tae be Athena, angry at the vandalism of the Parthenon, not the Widow Fitzwilliam, entertaining callers.”

“I do somewhat lack the upper arm strength necessary for this pose,” said Elizabeth, her arms trembling.

“Set it down, perhaps?” asked Miss Duncan. “Just hold it upright, the butt of your spear on the ground— other hand to the hip. Look disapproving, as if Lady Catherine’s bathing machine is rattling down the beach.”

Colonel Pascal and Miss Duncan burst out laughing at the expression of horror she provided instead.

Satisfied, Elizabeth rearranged her features into a more artistically useful expression.

“You seem in better spirits than yesterday,” observed Colonel Pascal.

“I fancy I am,” she replied. “We’ve achieved all our objectives. I feel as if a great weight has been lifted.”

Colonel Pascal asked, as gently as a dove rustling its wings, “When we rejoined the ladies, Lady Stornoway said you had quarreled with Lady Catherine and retired to bed with a sick headache... I hope that....”

“Ach, she was with us and Wellington,” said Miss Duncan, “so she had a better evening than you no doubt.”

Elizabeth wished she was not so prone to blushing. Colonel Pascal looked askance at her and then, lips twitching, said, “Hm. Well. My evening was pleasant enough. I came not only to inquire after your health, Mrs. Fitzwilliam, but to ask your advice.”

“Really?” she asked, feeling a little doubtful. “On what subject?”

“Over port your cousin Mr. Darcy invited me to make a trial of my vinegar experiments at a hospital he is building in Lambton. Do you think he was in earnest?”

“Undoubtedly so! His father died of septicemia; he has a very vested interest in your work. But he is gone to Derbyshire only this morning, and shall be there for some time. You shall have to write to arrange the details— though I am happy to take up my pen on your behalf.”

“Gone to Derbyshire?”

“Much to Lord Wellington’s delight,” said Miss Duncan dryly. “He looked positively smug at breakfast this morning. Like having a couple of stallions in the same pen, they were. No idea why they should be so fractious with each other; their spheres of influence or interest can hardly overlap.”

Colonel Pascal smile a little, in such a way as to convey, ‘I know why,’ and asked, innocent and light as a lace doily, “I wonder, Mrs. Fitzwilliam, if you thought on the advice _I_ gave _you._ ”

Elizabeth glared a warning at him.

Colonel Pascal bit his lips and said, in a voice unsteady with laughter, “Hm. And Mr. Darcy now in Derbyshire. My my.”

“Where I am sure he would be glad to see you,” said Elizabeth tartly. “I can secure you an immediate invitation, if you are so determined—”

“No, no,” he replied, as Miss Duncan paused and looked up at him suspiciously. “I am due back in France, soon enough; my duties to the Coldstream Guard forbid it. And I must admit to finding London....” He paused, like a ballerina holding a difficult pose. “Interesting. At present.”

“Do you?” Elizabeth asked, dry as the Sahara.

Into this came Mary Crawford, who, hearing this, immediately said, “What’s this, Pascal? A love affair? Don’t tell me Lawrence Spencer finally managed to set you up with someone! He's only been threatening it this age."

“Not in the least,” Colonel Pascal replied.

“Ooh, someone else’s love affair then? How thrilling. And I am glad to see you are finding a second use of that costume, Lizzy.”

“Must it be a love affair and not the fact that my theories on washing with vinegar are finally reaching a level of mainstream acceptance?” asked Colonel Pascal.

Mary Crawford sunk dramatically on a divan, the back of her hand to her forehead. “Oh must it be otherwise? How very dull of you, Pascal, merely satisfied to change the medical profession as we know it.”

“Must ye jabber on so in my studio?” asked Miss Duncan, rather aggravated.

“Must,” agreed Mary Crawford, hand still to her forehead. “Lady Catherine’s got Marjorie trapped in the main parlor, and I was sure I’d run into Mr. Darcy again if I went to Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s parlor. I baited him rather too much last evening and do not wish to see how foul a temper he must be in today.”

“He’s on the way to Derbyshire now,” said Miss Duncan, “so the parlor is all yours!”

“What were you baiting the poor man about?” Elizabeth asked.

Mary’s wickedly satiric gaze fell onto Elizabeth. “You, actually. I fancy I won the argument.”

 _"Me_?”

“Oh yes. Darcy almost followed Wellington out, when His Grace went to ask after your health last evening. Our insufferable master of Pemberley thinks himself responsible for you, and I took him to task for thinking you did not know your own mind, or were incapable of refusing that which you did not want. He protested this, I told him that he was a fool for thinking that you were even susceptible to, let alone _aware of_ the dangers Mr. Darcy insisted were lurking around the corner. He did finally stop arguing with me when I pointed out you were not in the mood necessary for all of his worst suspicions and most salacious imaginings to come to pass, considering that you were so filled up with grief and anger you very nearly punched Lady Catherine in the nose over the predilections of Alexander the Great.”

“I find it difficult to fully take in an anecdote that includes such opposing ideas as ‘Mr. Darcy’ and ‘salacious imaginings,’” murmured Colonel Pascal.

“I daresay they aren’t very salacious,” said Mary, dryly. “Improper hand holding, at most.”

Miss Duncan said, eyes on her paper, “I know it comes from a place of caring, but Cousin Darcy can be damned officious. Unless he is shocked, _shocked_ at unfinished games of _vingtt-et-un_ and bitching about Lady Catherine, he is doomed to disappointment. Wellington behaved in a very boring, friendly manner. Nora and I were there the entire time.”

Colonel Pascal looked askance at Elizabeth, who said, crossly, “Mary, I suppose I am grateful, but I wish you would not be so hard on Darcy. He really does mean well, he just... does not express it—”

“—like human beings do,” said Mary. “Really, if someone told me that Darcy was a cleverly designed automaton, with conduct manuals instead of clockwork animating the whole, I would not be in the least surprised. But he is too dull to sustain more conversation. Marjorie told me your papa-in-law was too hungover to come down to breakfast this morning! Is that true, or wishful thinking on her part?”

They chatted along happily, pausing only at Wellington’s entrance. Colonel Pascal tried and failed to hide his amusement, which Mary Crawford observed in some confusion. Elizabeth, now allowed to sit with her spear, and with papier-mache helmet and aegis off, endeavored to act normally, but she felt rather off-kilter, to be caught not only in fancy dress, changing poses so that Miss Duncan could try out different ideas— but to have so shrewd a friend as Mary Crawford observing her while she could not help the glowing good-humor Wellington’s presence evoked in her. Elizabeth was rather relieved than otherwise when Mary Crawford and Colonel Pascal left for their own homes soon afterwards.

Wellington passed the remaining time with them, content to read in silence. Elizabeth appreciated the time to gather her thoughts, such as they were, and was somewhat surprised to realize that she did not feel desperately weary, for the first time in months— a little tired, to be sure, for she was no longer accustomed to late nights, but it was the sort of tiredness a nap might cure, not the exhaustion caused by bearing the weight of her grief so long and so constantly. Indeed, she felt almost lively again. Elizabeth smiled a little to herself.

When a servant came to tell them it was time to dress for dinner, Elizabeth roused herself from her thoughts, and was surprised to see that Miss Duncan had abandoned paper and pencil for a little round of ivory and a watercolor brush.

“I thought paintings to be a little larger,” said Elizabeth.

“Aye, but this isnae a painting. It is a miniature, entirely unrelated to the project I set myself to, because I have poor impulse control and I liked your expression. Go back to woolgathering.”

Elizabeth patiently did so and was rewarded at the end, with a miniature.

“Not one of my best miniatures,” Miss Duncan said, laying the little round of ivory out to dry, “but I had only two hours to do it. Usually need at least three to really get all the colors right. Odd my two inches of ivory should require so much work for so little effect! But here it is, Mrs. Fitz, your down payment for being my artist’s model. Get it framed as you like.”

“You have painted her eyes perfectly,” said Wellington, coming to look at it. “Their color and shape are very exact, and you have managed to capture their expression, which I think probably a more difficult piece of work.” Elizabeth looked at the miniature a little doubtfully; in the only other miniature Miss Duncan had painted of her, Elizabeth had been in formal dress, looking up archly from a book. It had matched her own internal view of herself. Here she was smiling, but to herself, rather than at the viewer, her hair uncovered, neck bare, her gown unadorned— the pleated linen not interesting or showy enough to detract from her expression. The expression itself was unguarded, as if Miss Duncan had pinned a secret onto the ivory, and Elizabeth was not sure if she liked it.

It surprised Elizabeth, when, late that evening, Wellington asked her, “My dear— this is perhaps too soon on my part, but might I have that miniature of you Miss Duncan made this afternoon?”

“I suppose?” She propped herself up on her elbow to better look at him. The firelight licked its golden way across his face; he mirrored her pose with a quirk of a smile.

“You suppose? Is there so great a demand for your portrait as all that?”

“Not at all. My parents already have a miniature of me, and Matlock has the Vigee-Lebrun— I just — it didn't occur to me that you might want a portrait of me.”

“As you pointed out this morning, I am regretfully off to France, until Kitty’s mess draws me back to London once more. I have only a week more with you before I am forced to do without you for a month entire. At least allow me to have your image when I cannot have your company.”

“Well,” she said reluctantly, “I am not sure I like Miss Duncan’s latest effort. I am sensitive, at present, to how the world perceives me; I should rather be the arch creature in my father-in-law’s portrait hall than anything else.”

“I think it rather a good representation of you,” Wellington replied. “You are fine-eyed enough to be Athena, and there is a mixture of intelligence and sweetness in the expression that I generally associate with you. And you mistake matters quite, if you think I mean to hang it up in my parlor and point it out to visitors. I mean to get it set in gold and either wear it on a chain or keep it in my pocket. Either way I will refuse to let anyone else see it.”

“I cannot understand why you want it, then.”

He leaned over, cupped her cheek in his hand, and kissed her. “Can you not?”

His tone was caressing; Elizabeth smiled and relented.


	7. In which Mrs. Fitzwilliam and Lord Wellington try not to flirt with each other and do not succeed

“I begin to understand,” said Wellington, the day before he was off to Cambrai, “why Colonel Fitzwilliam was always sneaking off with you.”

The mention of her husband ought to have pained her, but Elizabeth had too recently come down from the highest pitch of excitement and pleasure to feel much other than curiosity, and gratification at the compliment. She glanced up from where she was resting her head on Wellington’s chest to ask a hazy, “Oh? I always thought we were rather discreet.”

Wellington’s chuckle rumbled pleasantly through her. “I am sure you did! That was half the charm of it.”

“Colonel Fitzwilliam and I were not... indecorous, though— were we?”

“Merely obvious. A number of times I had to send an aide to find you, when I couldn't find your husband.” He considered her figure admiringly. “Can't blame the fellow. If I had been married to you, I would have behaved with considerably less discretion.”

“I am not sure if that is a tribute to me or to my late husband,” she said dryly. “Or merely proof of your roguery. I still recall your message to him before Quatre Bras—” she affected a posher accent and as formal a manner as she could, while her unbuttoned night rail had entirely slid off one shoulder, and her hair was so tousled. “His Grace the Duke of Wellington told me particularly to say that he knows you are closeted with Mrs. Fitzwilliam at present, and even so, you must make haste; His Grace would prefer to be closeted with Mrs. Fitzwilliam as well, but he is already ahorse.”

He chuckled. “You remembered that very exactly.”

“I was mortified. It is burnt into my memory. Though,” she added, feeling daring enough to tap him on the nose, “I am curious if being closeted up with me was indeed preferable to whatever it was you were doing.”

“Being humbugged and yes, it is.” He sighed and closed his eyes. “It'll be a damned unhappy adjustment, being without you until March.”

His hair was going grey at the temples; Elizabeth ran her fingers along these strands and said, a little uncertainly, “Your Grace?”

“Yes?”

“On that subject....” Her hand stilled. Elizabeth was not entirely sure how to bring up the topic.

He opened one blue eye. “Out with it, my dear.”

“There is... one part of our arrangement that puzzles me still— or that I have not yet resolved. That is— I am very aware that there are... there are other women....”

His Grace snorted. “I am flattered by your belief in my stamina, or, more accurately, in my time management. When the devil would I be seeing other women?”

Elizabeth was rather pleased to hear this. “What,” she asked playfully, tossing her unbound hair over her bared shoulder, “the great Wellington, savior of Europe, victor of Waterloo, cannot also cause time to bow to his whims?”

“It's next on the list.”

“But I— it isn't _now in England,_ that I refer to when I talk of other women. If this is to continue— which it appears it will—”

“Out with it, Mrs. Fitz,” he repeated.

“Might I have your assurance, sir,” said she, “that you will not start up a liaison with anyone else, while you are...?” Elizabeth struggled to think of an appropriate euphemism. “While you are keeping me company?”

He smirked a little; Elizabeth said, hastily, “I know you have declared its logistical impossibility, but you are soon off to France and I....”

“I shall oblige you madame,” said he. “You have my word of honor I shall not keep company, as you phrased it, with anyone else. But come here, my dear—” putting an arm about her waist “—I have my own need for assurance before I depart.”

 

***

 

Wellington’s departure for France left Elizabeth downcast, but this was not noticed in the flurry of activity surrounding the visit of Lord Matlock’s youngest daughter, Lady Arabella.

Lady Arabella seldom left her comfortable home in Denmark, and indeed, brought much of it with her when she did, including her husband, newborn son, and a small army of servants who spoke no English and drove the Pattinsons quite mad with their foreign customs. Elizabeth was at first relieved not to be in the spotlight, for a little while. But as the visit went on, she was saddened to discover that she and Lady Arabella did not know what to say to each other. They sat in strained silence when they could not avoid each other, Elizabeth attempting to talk of books or music, which held little interest to Arabella, and Arabella responding with the domestic concerns which occupied her waking hours, and in which Elizabeth, without husband, farm, household, or children of her own, could have no share.

With Darcy gone, and Marjorie occupied in talking over baby matters, Elizabeth passed her time at home with Honoria and Miss Duncan, with Colonel Pascal and Mary Crawford their most frequent callers. As far as she could tell, only Colonel Pascal had any real guess as to the cause of her low spirits, and even then, he was too refined to do much more than offer tactful bits of consolation and once, to somewhat impishly compliment her taste while pretending to be talking about her attempts at flower arrangement. Though she was sure he was curious for details, Pascal did not press her, and kept Mary Crawford, who was suspicious, without having any clearly articulated suspicions, from picking up on the situation.

When Matlock House grew too oppressive, Elizabeth was glad to realize she had other relations in London, and went immediately to call on the Gardiners.

“I am so sorry for neglecting you,” said Elizabeth, kissing her aunt, and dutifully passing out all sweetmeats relocated from the Matlock pantry to the pockets of her traveling coat, “but with the bill, and the Duke of Wellington’s... problems... I have been rather busy.”

“I am well aware that Lord Matlock endeavours to fill all your time when you are in London,” said Mrs. Gardiner, wryly.

“I suppose I ought to be glad I am of use,” said Elizabeth.

“And I know you could never be idle when any friend of yours had need of you,” said Mrs. Gardiner. “I shall not press you to reveal any scandals, but I should dearly love to hear an insider’s perspective on the whole Wellington affair. It seems to be all anyone can talk about. Indeed, all my friends have read your name in the papers and seen your likeness in Gillray’s print shop—” Gillray was the most famous political cartoonist in London “— and they all have been pressing me to see the letter you sent me on the subject.”

Elizabeth colored a little and glanced at the children, who were ushered back up to the nursery to enjoy their sweetmeats where it would annoy their governess rather than their mother and cousin. She had not had occasion, so far, to give a coherent narrative of the whole affair— even in her letters to her father, aunt Gardiner, and Jane, she had contented herself to a light, ‘I suppose you have heard of Mr. Jackson’s surprise attack on the Duke of Wellington; we Fitzwilliams are all rallying round and trying to defend as best we can. I have enclosed my favorite political cartoons of the hour.’

Mrs. Gardiner was a perfect listener, far removed from the action, and emotionally engaged only in that she was interested in anything that occupied her niece’s time. Mr. Gardiner left his accounts for the duration of the story, for he was as intrigued as most of London over the Duke of Wellington’s affairs.

“And the Duke is back to France now?” asked Mr. Gardiner.

“Yes, though he comes back this March,” said Elizabeth.

“Is he staying with your father-in-law again?” asked Mrs. Gardiner.

“Oh yes, I believe so. As far as I understand, the Jacksons have the use of Apsley House until all properties and debts are divided and settled.”

“My word, Lizzy,” said Mr. Gardiner. “In what high circles you do move! Living with earls and dukes— though I think you knew Wellington since he was only a Sir Arthur.”

“I think he was technically a viscount when I first met him in Lisbon, but as he hadn't managed to return to London to claim the title, everyone addressed him as....” She could not quite help a laugh. “Honestly, no two people ever called him the same thing. There was indeed Sir Arthur, but also Beau Douro, Beau Wellesley, General Wellesley, the Peer, old Nosey, and our Atty— which I wouldn't advise you repeat! These days I just think of him as Wellington. But, whatever one calls him, I am very glad to call him a friend.” This she somehow managed to say without blushing, which rather encouraged her, though it also caused the thought, ‘I am spending too much time with Mary Crawford and become desensitized’ to float through her mind.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Gardiner, kindly. “I remember your writing about how kind he was after Colonel Fitzwilliam died. One does not often see that in these great men.”

“He is not without his faults,” she replied, smiling, “but all the same, I like him more than most people I have met. But enough of high society scandal! How is it with you?”

The Gardiners were quite well, and Mrs. Gardiner’s pregnancy progressing as expected. They also reminded Elizabeth that her parents were soon due to visit London, with Kitty and Georgiana in tow. Elizabeth went home and scrambled to recall what plans had been set up to get Georgiana back to Pemberley. Was Georgiana staying at Darcy House or at Matlock House? Who would fetch her when?

“She stays with us, and Darcy will come fetch her at Easter, and take her along with him on the usual visit to Rosings,” said Marjorie. “Darcy and Matlock arranged it all.”

“I do feel bad for not recalling,” she replied. “Richard was her guardian.”

“Yes but she is not your responsibility,” replied Marjorie. “That is— if you wish to occupy yourself with Georgiana and taking her about until April, I should be very much obliged to you, but I know you have your own friends to visit and projects to pursue, and... are still in deepest mourning.” She eyed Elizabeth’s bombazine dinner gown as if it hurt her. “I do not mean to rush you, but if ever you wished to venture into a nice grey or purple, I would drop everything at once to take you to my modiste."

Mrs. Bennet also echoed this view.

“My poor dear Lizzy,” said Mrs. Bennet, sweeping into Elizabeth’s parlor, as Mary, Georgiana, and Kitty went up to see Georgiana’s room. “How are you still all in black? You would look much better in purple or a nice pearl grey. Oh! How very sickly you look. No wonder so many MPs were going on about your delicacy. Your father gets the summaries of the debates in one of those reviews of his and he read the one about the Fitzwilliam bill to me, and it put me in such a state. To think you, dear girl, had inherited my poor health! How I shuddered to think of it! But your father was good enough to say he thought any paleness on your part was purely rhetorical, and I should not worry about it. Is it not good of your father to try and comfort me so? Though I must agree with your aunt Phillips, who thought that the Fitzwilliams were working you too hard. I do wish you would get some lavender dresses, they would become you a great deal better. But I suppose the Fitzwilliams expect you to be in black for the full year.”

“No, they do not, but I... I still expect it of myself.” Elizabeth rang for refreshments, so that she might have something to do. Truthfully, she had wondered about going into half-mourning, and gone so far as to study some designs in  _La Belle Assemblee_ before feeling a wave of sudden guilt and stuffing the magazine into the bottom of her workbasket.

Mr. Bennet quite surprised them all by putting down the newspaper he had picked up as soon as he entered Elizabeth’s parlor. “Hard going still, eh Lizzy?”

“Harder some days than others, sir.” Elizabeth was surprised to feel a hand on her shoulder, and surprised again to realize it was her mother’s.

“Oh Lizzy,” said Mrs. Bennet, patting her shoulder, “it is a very sad thing to be sure. It was a very good match you made, almost better than Jane’s! Of course you will be forever regretting that Colonel Fitzwilliam is gone. But look how well off he has left you!”

“It does not make up for his loss,” said Elizabeth, frustrated.

“I only meant that it shews how very much he cared for you,” said Mrs. Bennet, tartly, “but you are always so determined to misunderstand people. Of course it does not! It is much better for a woman to be married than to be a widow. No one finds widowhood pleasant, even if they have your jointure. But Lizzy, you must face the reality that you are a widow and there is no changing that unless you marry a second time.”

“I know— I know it is impossible to have him back, Mama. I am... becoming resigned to that fact.”

“There,” said Mrs. Bennet. “That is all one can ask.” She soon proved this wrong. “Lizzy, I must ask about the Wellington divorce— though only to satisfy our neighbors, for they have not the connections to greatness that we do, and the benefits of your letters, and have no better information than the _Times_ , or some other newspaper. The Longs were even so obliging as to shew me an article in the _Edinburgh Review_ —”

“It wasn't,” corrected Mr. Bennet.

“Well it wasn't the _Times_ or _The St. James’s Chronicle_ or the Lucases would have brought it!”

“As I pay seven pence for the privilege of each copy of the _Edinburgh Review_ , I think I am justified in saying that our daughter did not appear in its pages. There is still time, however. That periodical did inform me Lady Caroline Lamb was writing a roman-a-clef. Lizzy might appear in that.”

“I hope not,” said Elizabeth. “The political cartoons have been unpleasant enough.”

“I quite liked the one of Wellington hiding behind your skirts,” said Mr. Bennet, hugely amused. “His Grace is such an innovative defensive tactician.”

“Perhaps it was the _Examiner_ ,” said Mrs. Bennet, ignoring the rest of the conversation. “But it said that His Grace, having met with such success by asking Colonel Fitzwilliam to defend Hougoumont, had now retreated to Matlock House to ask the rest of the Fitzwilliams to defend him. There was something about his new favorite, the Widow Fitzwilliam, fighting a proxy war with Mrs. Willoughby, but that they have gotten quite wrong for I know you have always been a favorite. Why, he danced the supper set with you when you first met him in Lisbon.”

Elizabeth was not sure what, if anything she ought to say to this but contented herself with, “We have become much better friends since January.”

Mrs. Bennet nodded. “As well you should, after all his kindness to you, and all the trials he has faced! The poor man has spent so long fighting for England abroad, only to come back to England and be attacked in his own home, by his own wife. It quite broke my heart to hear of it, and him with his own soulmate dead! Poor, poor man! I am glad you took his side.”

Elizabeth did not feel like getting into that at present. She instead asked her mother what she knew of the divorce and earned herself ten minutes’ relief from talking. It further relieved her to hear that the most unpleasant London rumors had not yet reached Hertfordshire, or were immediately discounted. All Meryton and its surrounding neighborhoods believed the most popular version of the affair, i.e. after some initial anger at being surprised, the Duke gallantly stepped aside at evidence of a true match, and did so immediately because, having seen his own soulmate die at some nebulous point in the past, he knew how important it was for soulmates to be together. They furthermore believed that the Fitzwilliams, high-church sticklers that they were, had helped guide Wellington towards this point of view. Elizabeth’s part in this seemed mostly to be as an aide-de-camp. It did somewhat surprise her that there should be no speculation, printed or otherwise, that she was Wellington’s mistress, but she supposed the Fitzwilliam reputation for almost moralistic propriety, or her own obvious love for and grief over Colonel Fitzwilliam had put a halt to those. Marjorie had mentioned too that Wellington’s turning immediately to so prominent a Whig family for help had somewhat dampened partisan fire. The Whig papers would not attack with as much vitriol as they ordinarily would, and the Tory papers likewise.

That... and the fact that the newspapers were having too much fun with Mr. Elliot declaring Elizabeth the model of British female delicacy. It made for better and more amusing visuals than her merely being a duke’s mistress. Mr. Bennet’s favourite was one of John Bull— the usual stand-in for the British public—  looking gormlessly in the opposite direction as a lady meant to be Elizabeth catapulted head-first into the mud, bravely saving her basket of bandages by allowing her face to take the brunt of the landing.

“I marvel at how cleverly this engraver avoided having to draw your face,” said Mr. Bennet, a couple of days later, when he had come for a visit himself, leaving Mrs. Bennet and the two Miss Bennets with the Gardiners. “I am building up quite the portrait gallery of you, Lizzy; though I cannot say I entirely recognize you in half the things given the dubious honor of your name.”

“No, nor I,” said Elizabeth. “Everyone around me thought Mr. Elliot’s speech a very fine joke. Mr. Darcy actually laughed, Lord Wellington was moved enough to roll his eyes, and I was even threatened with a portrait as a fainting martyr, coated in mud. Thank God Miss Duncan became more interested in the Elgin marbles and had me pose as a disapproving Athena instead.”

“I should love to see such a portrait.”

Elizabeth agreed to it, and took him to where it rested, half-finished, on Miss Duncan’s easel. As they were examining it, Elizabeth asked, idly, “Papa— what are people saying in Hertfordshire?”

“That one should never grow wheat after fallow.”

“Papa!”

“Yes, yes, you refer to the accuracy of your mother’s long ramble the other day. I am delighted to say our neighbors have shown a fascinatingly bull-headed partiality towards Wellington. If there is anyone to blame in the affair, it is the new Mrs. Jackson, though opinions changed when nearly every newspaper reprinted the same bit of gossip that she started weeping on the novelist Maria Edgeworth, and declaring both her husbands had behaved with really unbelievable propriety and that her only regret was that the Duke of Wellington’s own soulmate was dead. There are a number of bets on whether or not this is true, or if Mrs. Jackson is as mistaken about the Duke of Wellington as ever.”

“In London as well,” said Elizabeth, with a sigh. “And Paris! Mrs. Kirke wrote me only last week that Wellington has been deluged by hopeful women named ‘Catherine.’ He has not enjoyed it.”

“One would assume the opposite, given his reputation.”

“Given how close he came to ruin thanks to Harriette Wilson, I think he is a little less inclined towards... his old standards of behavior.”

Mr. Bennet chuckled. “I’m sure he told you he is now determined on a life of virtue.”

“Hardly,” said Elizabeth, blushing. “Merely less imprudence.”

She got a letter from Wellington the next morning which reinforced his idea. He began by complaining bitterly that he had not quiet enough to put two thoughts together, every single soldier in his army had become drunk, dissipated disappointments in his absence (“Not even two months, in which I had thought my most capable commanders could maintain discipline. Thank God Boney is in exile. My army could not now chase him out of a carriage, let alone mainland Europe.”), people kept being offended he would not come to social gatherings (“They seem to have forgotten I am in France for reasons other than pleasure.”), the Prussians were useless, and ended rather surprisingly. He had kept his promise of fidelity, and he badly missed her.

‘ _Through these trials_ ,’ he wrote, ‘ _I carry with me image of Athena, as all the Spanish officers insisted upon carrying around lockets with the image of their particular saints during the Peninsular War. It hardly makes up for the presence of such a goddess; particularly in company, when I badly miss the protection of her aegis. Still, my talisman provides a certain measure of comfort. Your letters have much more. V. much enjoyed yr account of Lady Jersey and Mrs. Willoughby’s meeting to discuss the Hampstead Hospital, and wish you every joy of_ that. _Write me when you know more, or even when you do not. Until then, I am yr humblest petitioner, Wn_.’

This she did not show to anyone, not even Marjorie, but she went about smiling when she thought of it, enough for Mary Crawford to remark upon her sudden good humor, and Colonel Pascal to at last give into curiosity.

“You lure me out of doors, braving the cold for promise of exercise,” Elizabeth complained, trying to wobble forward on the frozen surface of the Thames in her skates, “quite causing me to abandon what seemed like a perfectly fascinating pamphlet by a new French author—”

“Who?”

“An Olympe de Gouges?”

“She’s not so very new,” said Colonel Pascal dryly. “She was guillotined in ‘93.”

“Her _Declaration of the Rights of Women and the Female Citizen_ is very new to me! My father only just managed to acquire a copy and pass it onto me.” She put her hands on her hips. “You have interrupted the list of charges.”

He smiled. “Continue.”

“Then,” she persisted, “when it is clear I cannot escape, you spring upon me questions you know I cannot answer.”

He looked charming and wounded, like some Baroque putti observing an action it disliked in the foreground of its fresco.

“I don’t pry into your affairs.”

“That is because I have no current _affaires du coeur_ with important men,” he replied. “If ever I did—”

“You would tell me, in great detail?”

“Not in great detail,” he protested. Colonel Pascal was a graceful figure skater, and moved as easily on the ice as Elizabeth might traverse a ballroom. He drifted from her, to gently steer Kitty back to where Georgiana and Mary were making solid but unadventurous progress, waited for them to link hands again, and then neatly spun about and glided back to where Elizabeth wobbled. He held out a hand to her, as if they were partners in the set.

Elizabeth grumbled and took it. It was much easier to be towed about.

“That’s it,” he said encouragingly. “Push then glide.”

“I am grateful to you, but not enough to break a confidence.”

“Yes, from all I have heard, he does not like his private affairs talked of,” Colonel Pascal mused.  “He picked very wisely, this time around. Though—” with rather a Puckish air about him “—I know you too well to think you at all content to be passively picked.”

“Oh God,” muttered Elizabeth.

“At least tell me if he deserves his reputation, now you are, ah... intimately acquainted with his manoeuvres in close quarters.”

Despite herself, Elizabeth burst out laughing. “You are the worst! All I shall say is that you gave me very good advice and I am glad I took it. I am much happier than I thought I would be, given—” she made a vague gesture with her free hand, at all her blacks “— everything.”

“And yet you did not answer! Do you deny his, ah... vaunted reputation for being a skilled... tactician?”

She blushed, which was answer enough for Colonel Pascal.

He said, with an air of false innocence, “I always heard that for all he trained as a cavalry officer, he knew how to handle his cannon.”

“What on earth has gotten into the two of you?” asked Mary Crawford, as Elizabeth and Colonel Pascal collapsed onto a snow bank, giggling like debutants after their first glasses of champagne.  

“Nothing,” said Elizabeth, as Colonel Pascal said, “Everything.”

“A philosophical conundrum,” observed Miss Crawford.

Colonel Pascal wiped his watering eyes. “Ah no, we are just living up to the worst Tory propaganda about Whigs. I, a Jewish invert, am trading very libertine confidences with my ex-partner’s Olympe de Gouges-reading widow.”

“Her libertine confidences or yours?” Miss Crawford asked shrewdly.

“Well,” said Elizabeth impishly, “we do have one shared point in common—”

“Keep your confidences,” said Miss Crawford, with a moue of distaste.

 

***

 

In due course, Honoria and Arabella, and all their families and servants, embarked for Scotland. Miss Duncan, already looking tired out by the journey, took a moment to tell Elizabeth that the painting was turning out much better than expected.

“I’ll want a week or two to tinker with it more,” she said, looking upon the wide canvas on the easel, where Athena stared, shocked at the ruins of her temple. “No matter how many times I do ‘em over, I’m never happy with how hands turn out. Probably why I was a miniaturist. I could avoid hands altogether.” Still, she looked fondly upon the canvas. “I usually only submit to the salon in Edinburgh, but I might send it back to London too.”

“Do whatever you think best,” said Elizabeth. “I am rather pleased with my own small contribution. And I thank you for the miniature again.”

“What did you end up doing with it?”

She colored and admitted, “I gave it to a friend in France.”

Wellington was not very far from her thoughts; he was soon due back to England, and she had missed him a great deal. Elizabeth had not trusted herself to set down the half of her feelings on paper, especially after Lady Melbourne’s advice on the subject, and after Wellington himself teasied her on how involuntarily indiscreet she had been when sneaking off with her husband. Her letters were a succession of witty remarks on her day to day life, the politics and society of London, what news of international politics everyone was talking over, and what books she was reading or music she was trying to learn to play. It was the sort of letter she might have sent to Mrs. Kirke or Charlotte Collins, although with _them_ she had no feelings she was afraid of others reading.

Wellington was less circumspect in his letters. She wondered if he was less frightened of public censure, or if he could merely be allowed more scope of expression because he was a man, and a man known for flirting with his female correspondents— and, on the day he was to arrive at Matlock House, Elizabeth spent most of the morning obsessing over this, and staring out the window of Marjorie's parlor. The sight of Wellington’s carriage filled her with delight. She could not help but smile, though she tried very hard to hide it.

“Is there a particular reason you are quite so pleased by the traffic?” asked Marjorie.

“No reason,” Elizabeth said, twitching the curtain shut.

“Mm-hm,” said Marjorie. “Then come here and help me with the flowers. No, not there. To your right. You’ll be better framed by the curtains.” She moved about the table, and positioned Elizabeth to her satisfaction. Marjorie considered the composition with as much frowning attention as Miss Duncan had with her history painting, and then picked up several branches of tea roses. “Push your veil over your shoulder and hold these.”

“Why?”

“No reason,” said Marjorie archly.

“The Duke of Wellington to see you, my lady,” said the butler, as Marjorie went back to her side of the table.

“Show him in.”

Elizabeth turned to look over her shoulder and could not help but smile and exclaim, “Your Grace!” upon seeing his tall, fine person enter the room.

Marjorie’s staging was to good effect; Wellington looked warmly and admiringly at Elizabeth as he said, “Mrs. Fitz, my dear, it has been an age.” He recalled Marjorie was also present and bowed to her. “Lady Stornoway.”

“Your Grace,” said Marjorie, dipping into a curtsey. “We dine _en famille_ this evening; only our cousin Miss Darcy is unknown to you. We have put you in your usual room— would you care to freshen up? If not, perhaps I might consign you to the care of Mrs. Fitzwilliam. I know you left Copenhagen in France, since you are only here a few days, and my father-in-law wishes you to have your pick of the stables while you are staying with us.” She waved about her flowers as if to give an excuse as to why she could not do so herself.

“I should be very much obliged if Mrs. Fitzwilliam would take me to the stables,” said Wellington.

Marjorie contented herself with an airy, “I thought as much!”

Wellington waited only to be sure the hall was empty before sweeping Elizabeth up into his arms and kissing her thoroughly.

Elizabeth said, in a tone of playful censure, “Your Grace!”

He tried to look innocent. “What offends the lady? She holds onto me tightly enough.”

“So I do not fall!” she protested, laughingly.

“I cannot help that you are such a little thing. To kiss you properly I am practically _obliged_ to pick you up.” But he set her down and said, with unguarded warmth, “Ah! My dear. I have felt the want of you very keenly.”

“I promise all manner of consolation,” Elizabeth replied, tapping him on the nose, “but later!”

“Later! Dear girl, I have waited a month to kiss you; is that not delay enough?”

She could not help but be moved by such obvious desire, and though it was not as thorough a consolation as His Grace might have wished, they were both in a glowing good humor at dinner. Only Marjorie seemed to mark it; all the others attributed Wellington’s good spirits to progress with his divorce, and Elizabeth’s to all the letters Wellington had brought her from her military friends in France.

Georgiana did not know what entirely to make of the Duke of Wellington. She had clearly heard something from Darcy, but it was difficult to determine what. That was not to say Georgiana was unfriendly or rude, merely much shyer than she had been in years. Wellington made a particular effort to be gracious to Georgiana, and managed to charm her out of her reticence by talking of music. Georgiana was fascinated with talk of the opera in Paris, and roused to real enthusiasm when discussing the merits of Handel over Haydn.

It was only when the gentlemen were at their port and Elizabeth asked Georgiana how she liked the duke that Georgiana looked conscious and unhappy. “He is very charming, Lizzy.”

Elizabeth laughed. “You say that as if it was a defect!”

“How dare a man be charming,” said Marjorie, drolly.

Georgiana squirmed uncomfortably on the settee. “That is... the times I have met charming men, they... tend to want... things. And he is being very charming at Lizzy, even more so than the rest of us.”

Marjorie struggled to be serious at such an observation.

Elizabeth laughed. “Georgiana, I appreciate your concern, but His Grace makes a habit of flirting with me because he knows I do not take it seriously. I think your brother has been at work here! Did he ask you specifically to make sure I was on my guard whenever Lord Wellington is to be in England?”

Georgiana tried to protest but did not meet with much success.

“I can see Darcy has mastered the ability to be officious from even Derbyshire,” said Marjorie, later, when Georgiana had escaped to the piano. “Lizzy, I feel I must say something that will embarrass you. It is merely this: Cousin Darcy had no right to say in what manner you may be happy. I am glad to see you restored to cheerfulness— indeed, almost to yourself again. However it is accomplished is, to my way of thinking, an unequivocal good.”

Elizabeth turned the color of an infantry coat.

“Just recall that the servant’s bell is at six,” said Marjorie, feigning total absorption in a copy of _The Edinburgh Review._ And though Elizabeth could not have sworn to it, she thought she heard Marjorie add, under her breath, “And well done!”

 

***

 

“I think Marjorie knows,” said Elizabeth, when Wellington locked the door behind her.

“And this... surprises you, my dear?”

“A little,” she said, and then, in thinking it over, “I suppose not.”

“Very little escapes Lady Stornoway’s notice,” said Wellington, deftly taking her shawl from her. “We are damned lucky she uses her powers for good.”

“You aren't upset?”

“I rather expected it,” he replied dryly, folding her shawl and hanging it over the settee. “And judging by the way your friend Pascal couldn't keep from laughing the last time I was here, I daresay he knows as well.”

“I didn't tell either of them!”

He chucked her under the chin. “I am well aware. Dear girl, you can never entirely hide what you think. Your blushes betray you, when your expression does not. I would bet you five pounds your friend Miss Crawford finds out by the end of this visit. And hopefully there it ends. With Lady Stornoway and Miss Crawford to cover for you, I daresay we might continue on in as much secrecy as you like.”

“I have been _trying_ , since you so kindly put me on my guard.”

He laughed and kissed her, with a droll, “My dear, I shouldn’t mind at all if it became widely known you liked me.”

“I would rather mind if it became widely known I was your mistress.” Something about what he said earlier had struck her as odd; she briefly pressed a finger to his lips when he would have kissed her again and said, “Just a moment Beau Wellesley. As much secrecy as _I_ like? Does that mean you did not confide in anyone? Not even Mrs. Arbuthnot?”

“I daresay my brother Mornington has some suspicions, since he nearly caught me kissing you in the Lords, and Mrs. Arbuthnot certainly knows I think you quite the prettiest woman in London, but I have told no one, no. Not even Fitzroy—” this being his favorite aide-de-campe as well as his nephew-in-law “—has any inkling.”

“What, really?”

“My dear Mrs. Fitz,” he said, drawing her to him, “I told you, did I not, that I would see no harm comes to you due to your attachment to me? Discretion is the most useful defense on that head.” Wellington began to undo the buttons of her nightrail as matter-of-factly as if he were relieving her of her cloak, and, at Elizabeth's raised eyebrow said, “As appreciative as I am of the low cut of evening gowns, sometimes they are a horrible torment.” He slid his hands within the open collar of her night rail; Elizabeth sighed as he gently palmed her breasts. He admitted, “I’ve been longing to touch you since you came down to dinner.”

Elizabeth laughed in spite of herself. She was now so close she felt almost obliged to touch him. Elizabeth put her hands to his cheeks and was once again pleased to discover he had shaved for her. “Beau Wellesley, I cannot entirely comprehend how you can preach discretion and yet end your homily so outrageously.”

“I must somehow remain interesting enough for you to study.”

Elizabeth raised herself up to kiss him, causing him to shift his grip from her breasts to her hips. “Thank you for not speaking. It is appreciated. But I do not mean to deprive you of confidantes entirely. If you think Mrs. Arbuthnot will not give me the cut direct for my shamelessness, tell her all you like.”

This made him smile. “There, Madame, have I satisfied you on every particular?”

She blushed and pressed against him with a quiet, “Not _every_ particular.”

“Minx,” he said fondly, and took her to bed.

 

***

 

The next day it thunderstormed soon after Elizabeth’s parents and sisters came to visit, causing a half-hour visit to stretch all morning. At roughly the time when Kitty grew bored enough to agree to turn pages for Mary at the pianoforte, Mr. Pattinson grandly brought in a note from the Duke of Wellington, which said very little and conveyed only the information that His Grace was feeling bored and flirtatious— always a dangerous combination.

“Plagued with notes from your admirers, Lizzy?” Mr. Bennet asked, as Elizabeth struggled between fondness and exasperation. “He must be very determined to send a note in all this rain.”

“It is only Wellington,” said Elizabeth. “The rain keeps him indoors and he has nothing better to do.”

“Only Wellington?” Mr. Bennet said, eyebrows raised. “In what fine circles you do move, to speak of the Duke of Wellington as off-handedly as a novel you are embarrassed to be caught reading.”

“The Duke of Wellington?” asked Mrs. Bennet, dropping her needlework. She was attempting to fix the pleating of the christening gown Elizabeth was ever more tempted to abandon. “He is here? Now?”

“He arrived yesterday,” said Elizabeth. “He stays here at Matlock House whenever he is in England, until the Jacksons have moved out of Apsley House. I think I told you of it.”

“A sensible enough arrangement,” said Mr. Bennet. “I cannot imagine Apsley House, even if it is a ducal residence, is large enough for a man to live peacefully with his former wife and her new husband. What does His Grace want, Lizzy?”

“A game of billiards, which I am not inclined to give him,” said Elizabeth, going over to her desk and writing, ‘My family is visiting. I wonder why you sent me such a note; you are always complaining about how much correspondence you have. Do not add to it by sending me missives I should blush to have my parents see.’ She handed it to Mr. Pattinson. “Pray take that back to His Grace.”

His Grace seemed to wilfully misread her note, and, in the middle of Mrs. Bennet’s pressing Elizabeth for details about the Savior of Europe, Mr. Pattinson announced, “His Grace, the Duke of Wellington.”

“Oh Lord bless me!” exclaimed Mrs. Bennet.

Elizabeth tried to hide behind her veil.

Mr. Bennet put Elizabeth in check and murmured, “Come now, my dear, I am sure that the Duke of Wellington has had to deal with far worse than your mother.”  

It was half her mother, half her own worry she would betray her partiality before her parents, but this could not be said aloud.

Wellington appeared in the door and, with a bow, said, “Mrs. Fitzwilliam, I hear you are at home to visitors.”

“Did you now?” Elizabeth muttered under her breath. But she stood and went over to the door, causing all the Bennets to rise or spring out of their seats, according to their dispositions. “Your Grace, this is an _unexpected_ , dare I say, _unlooked for_ pleasure. The only visitors I am entertaining are my family. This is my mother, Mrs. Bennet.”

Mrs. Bennet was fortunately overawed and managed only a fluttering, “Your Grace! An honor— a very great honor!” as she curtsied deeply.

Wellington gallantly raised Mrs. Bennet’s hand to his lips and said, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Bennet. I have at last satisfied my curiosity as to where your daughter came by such a remarkable share of beauty.”

To Elizabeth’s severe mortification, Mrs. Bennet giggled. “Oh Lord, Your Grace, how you do flatter me! A woman with five grown up daughters and a granddaughter just born last year can have very little cause to think long on her own beauty. But I am glad to hear you think my Lizzy is in good looks. I was worried about her when she was crying her eyes out every day this past summer, but it seems to have done her no harm.”

“Thank you for the compliment, Mama,” said Elizabeth.

“I was very worried for your eyes,” said Mrs. Bennet, reproachfully. “They are your best feature, you would be losing a good deal if you injured them.”

“Perhaps I merely washed them out so often as to make them look new. Your Grace, may I introduce you to my father, Mr. Bennet?”

“I am sure,” said Mr. Bennet, “it is a relief to meet me and discover how little Mrs. Fitzwilliam owes me for her looks.”

“But a great deal for her wit, I see,” said Wellington, approvingly. “An equal pleasure, sir.” He turned to Mary and Kitty, gaping at him from where they stood behind the pianoforte.

“These are two of my younger sisters, Miss Bennet and Miss Catherine Bennet. Mary, Kitty—” at the sound of their names they curtsied. “Thank you. I present to you the Duke of Wellington.”

Mary clearly wished to say something profound but knew not what; Kitty said, in some confusion, “Should I ring for tea, Lizzy?”

“Yes, thank you, Kitty.”

“I hope you will not let me keep you from your practice,” said Wellington. “I am fond of music, and do not mean to overset your schedules by foisting my company upon you.”

Elizabeth shot him a speaking look, but he feigned deafness to this, and, sitting himself by Mrs. Bennet, asked if she and her daughters had come to town for the season.

“Only for a few weeks, Your Grace,” said Mrs. Bennet, resembling a hummingbird even more than usual. She was little more than a flutter of lace and ribbons. “My husband and I vastly prefer the country, but we have come to see our Lizzy and see how she gets on. She took the death of her husband very hard.” Then, with simple pride, “They were a true match, you know!”

Elizabeth suddenly realized that the way she had always spoken of her marriage as being a true match, of its being a particularly rare and desirable thing, came from her mother. This mortified her extremely.

Wellington added, “Indeed; it was one of the few true matches I have had the pleasure of seeing myself. Colonel Fitzwilliam was the sort of fellow one calls to mind when talking of an officer and a gentleman. He is very much missed by all who knew him.”

“He was so obliging as to lose every single game of chess he played against me,” agreed Mr. Bennet. “One could not ask for more in a son-in-law.”

Elizabeth felt thoroughly exasperated with both her parents. How could they both be so ridiculous?

“And you have been so kind to my Lizzy, I hear,” said Mrs. Bennet, who, as usual, had not quite understood her husband's little jokes, and elected to pass onto more comprehensible things. “That is very, very good of you, Your Grace. I am sure she has needed the support of her friends, facing her first season as a widow.”

“Goodness has nothing to do with it,” said Wellington, causing Elizabeth to blush. He spotted this, but said, blandly, “I take a great deal of comfort in your daughter’s company. Even amidst her own trials, she very staunchly stood my friend in one of the most trying periods of my life.”

Mrs. Bennet exclaimed, “As she well should! I must tell you, Your Grace, all of us on Hertfordshire were very much shocked by the behavior of the former Duchess. It was graciousness itself for you to step aside as you did.”

“Many a person drew comparison with Arthurian legend,” said Mr. Bennet. “Some of them were almost apt.”

“I daresay of the more famous English Arthur had allowed his wife to instigate divorce proceedings a great deal of trouble would have been avoided,” he said, by now quite inured to mentions of his divorce. He chatted with the Bennets quite pleasantly, rose and complimented Elizabeth's sisters, causing Mary to play a series of wrong notes, and Kitty to accidentally pull the sheet music off the piano altogether, and then turned to Elizabeth. She glared at him. He looked terrifically amused.

“A chess player, are you Mrs. Fitz?”

She settled for a tart, “I should hesitate to display my command of strategy before someone whose skill in manoeuvring is so evident.”

“I daresay you'd be more than a match.”

The tea service arrived and Elizabeth noisily busied herself with it, allowing the very surreal tableau of ‘the Duke of Wellington plays chess with Mr. Bennet’ to somehow spring into being. His Grace lost, which seemed to amuse him yet further, and Elizabeth was able to distract the company with a large game of faro until the bell rang to dress for dinner.

Lady Stornoway, soaked to the skin, with an equally damp Georgiana in tow, poked her head into the parlor. “Georgiana and I were stranded in Pall Mall for what seems like years. There were no hackneys to get for love or money, and we unwisely thought to walk this morning. Exercise! Pah. There's no point to exercise. Would you all mind terribly if we diner informally this evening?” She took in the crowd. “You are all welcome, of course.”

Mrs. Bennet accepted with alacrity.

Wellington seemed to determined to charm Elizabeth’s entire family through dinner. He was attentive to the ladies, clever to Mr. Bennet, and when the ladies left the gentlemen to their port, Mrs. Bennet was all aflutter at how very _gracious_ the Duke of Wellington was. “I had always heard tell of him as the first gentleman in Europe, but dear me, I never thought it to be so true! What refinement, what condescension! For so important a man to so be so concerned and so attentive—oh my dear Lizzy, he must have thought so very highly of your husband!”

Though Elizabeth supposed she ought to be glad her mother hadn't picked up on the real nature of Wellington’s interest, it was rather galling to have Wellington’s attentiveness attributed entirely to the merits of someone else. She was afraid what her father, always more astute than his wife, would pick up on. Mr. Bennet would never outright condemn her— her status as favorite, and his own laziness would forbid that— but he had the particular knack of prodding one about what was most painful. Elizabeth still recalled bursting into tears that summer, when her father tried to joke her out of her dejection with a couple of quips about Chaucer and rich widows.

As it was, Mr. Bennet contented himself with a dry, “I see I was not wrong about your admirer, though I wonder at his being renowned only as a defensive tactician. The barrage of charm he has deployed as an opening attack has already quite caused your mother to surrender. I only hope you have learnt a thing or two about siege warfare, Lizzy, and might withstand so efficacious an offensive.”

Wellington was thankfully talking with Lady Stornoway about Metternich and did not hear this.

“Papa, you are ridiculous,” Elizabeth hissed, blushing.

To her dismay her mother agreed. “The _Duke of Wellington_ an admirer of Lizzy’s?” Mrs. Bennet shook her head. “That is just his _manner_ my dear Mr. Bennet! It is the manner of Great Men, or the ones who are _gentlemen_ at least, always a quip or a compliment for every body. I believe I am as sensible of my childrens’ virtues as any mother, and Lizzy is in her own way very pretty and no one could have guessed what a fine lady she turned out to be after seeing her run wild through mud puddles as a child, but to capture the attention of the _Duke of Wellington_ as you say...! Why you are always giving her the preference when there is really no reason for it, I shall never know.” But seeing Elizabeth was really distressed, Mrs. Bennet said, with stout partiality, “And you know our Lizzy has always been a favorite of Wellington’s, even when she was at her wildest and blowing up powder carts all over Spain. Now she is a little tamer of course he will like her more. But to think _our Lizzy_ would be a romantic object for a _Duke_ …!”

“I think I ought to thank you,” said Elizabeth, after a moment.

“Best do,” said Mr. Bennet. “It is the only way we can move on.”

After supper, the storm ended and the Bennets returned to Gracechurch Street very well pleased. Elizabeth sat apart from where the Earl, Lord and Lady Stornoway, and Georgiana sat playing whist, and focused on sewing the pleats Mrs. Bennet had finally pinned correctly in the Christening Gown that Would Never Be Finished.

“I'm always reminded of Penelope when I see you at work on that,” said Wellington, taking his usual chair and unfolding his newspaper. “Though what suitors you are keeping off, I really cannot tell. It cannot be Colonel Pascal.”

Elizabeth snorted. “He was my late husband’s suitor rather than my own, Your Grace.”

He glanced over the top of his newspaper. “And you are friends now?”

“I loved my husband as he was, for all he was, and so Colonel Pascal and I are friends now, somehow. I suppose I have horribly offended your Tory sensibilities by admitting as much.”

“My dear, I am hardly that much of a reactionary. You know about Ned.”

“It was a different case for my husband.”

“I had heard rumors; but it didn't make him any less of an exemplary officer.”

Elizabeth was inclined to be touched and modified by this praise, which was inconvenient as she was still out of charity with Wellington. She settled on a reluctant, “Thank you.”

“Not gushing enough praise?”

“It's not that. I'm very pleased by the tribute to my husband.”

He lowered the newspaper. “I can tell you are annoyed with me, but I really have no idea what I've done.”

She levelled an unimpressed look at him. “Oh really? I will not believe you if you attempt to say you neither noticed nor enjoyed how flustered I was all afternoon and evening. Thank God I was never my mother’s favorite. When my father thought to give me a little warning against your interest she informed both me and my father I was neither pretty enough nor pretty-behaved enough to ever capture your admiration.”

“I am not sure if you are more annoyed with the attention I paid you before your parents, or the interpretation your mother put on it.”

“I am not sure either,” Elizabeth said sourly. “But you are here and I am still embarrassed, so you must bear the brunt of the blame. Look as pitiable as you want, I shan't be moved.”

“If I make amends will you still come to me this evening?”

“It depends,” she said, still wanting to take her temper out on him.

“I would never unleash my mother upon you—” the mother who had decided that her useless younger son Arthur was fit only for cannon fodder, Elizabeth recalled “—but if I give you the opportunity to embarrass me before my sons, would you consider us even?”

Spite motivated her to agree, before real fondness for Wellington caused her to add, “I should like to see your sons, anyhow. I cannot imagine this has been easy for them— perhaps they might appreciate a play date, with my nieces and nephews? Well, nephew. Spencer is still at Eton.” These were dangerous waters; she quickly changed the subject to, “I suppose it is awkward for them at present, to be at home?”

“It would do them a world of good to get out of Apsley House,” he agreed. “But I cannot take them to France with me until everything has been settled and every bit of property divided. Mr. Thorpe’s blasted conditions.”

“I am sorry to hear it, sir.”

After a moment, Wellington said, “I wish I had been more present in their lives when they were younger. Of course, I was in the Peninsula from very shortly after Charles was born to 1814. I don't know how such a logistical impossibility could have been accomplished, but....”

“Mrs. Jackson never desired to follow the drum?”

“Could you even _imagine_?”

She winced. “A fair point, Your Grace. But it is good you are making up for it now.”

“Yes,” he replied, perhaps a little more serious than he had intended. “They always knew themselves to be the sons of the Duke of Wellington. I am not sure they really identified as _my_ sons until this January."

The question of identification resonated within her, in a quivering crescendo, like the sound made by running a finger around the rim of a crystal glass filled with water. Elizabeth bent her head to her work and tried to sort through her tangled emotions.

She was pleased, and, frankly, a little proud, to be a favorite of the Duke of Wellington’s, and did not mind that being known; that flirtation had turned into a liaison should not be discussed, except obliquely and to no more than three or four very trusted people. It also occurred to Elizabeth that she was particularly frustrated now because she had nearly divided in her mind, her Life In London, which encompassed the Fitzwilliams, her efforts at politicking, the Hampstead Heath Poor Hospital, her liaison with Wellington, and Family in Hertfordshire, who must be written to rather than seen, and whose lives moved busily on without her. All the people she felt comfortable knowing she was Wellington’s mistress were firmly part of her Life in London, and had very little connection to Hertfordshire.

After a moment she said, “Your Grace?”

“My dear?”

“How exactly have you... handled these relationships in the past? I am not entirely sure how to navigate the limbo of being very happy to be known as your friend, and being rather afraid to be known as your mistress… all the while being privately very happy at your attentions.”

“To be honest, my dear, I have never taken up with so close a friend before.”

She was rather surprised he hadn't taken up with Mrs. Arbuthnot and half said as much, before Wellington said, disapprovingly, “Do you really think I would deliberately seduce the wife of a friend?”

Mrs. Arbuthnot was exactly the sort of pretty, witty young thing Wellington had displayed a preference for, when he was not pointedly going after Napoleon’s mistresses, but Elizabeth considered the very strong friendship between the Duke and Mr. Arbuthnot. Wellington would never cuckhold a friend. Rake he might be, but he had his own sense of honor, one that that he very strictly obeyed. That, and Mrs. Arbuthnot was conscientiously virtuous. Even if Wellington had tried to advance, there was little chance he could succeed. “That was an unworthy thought; I am sorry to have aired it.”

“I shall take your comment in light of a compliment,” said Wellington, smiling at her, “a testament to your belief in my irresistibility rather than anything else. You may offer as many proofs of such partiality to me as you like, however they are expressed.”

Elizabeth laughed and tried to turn her attention to her work. “I hope you took my first question in so mutually complementary a light as well.”

He folded the paper and tossed it aside. “I have rarely felt so gratified. I suppose I ought to check how much attention I pay you in front of others.”

Feeling a little disappointed, Elizabeth said, “Oh, but....”

Wellington observed her with keen amusement. “Dear girl, do you _like_ it when I flirt with you in front of other people?”

“Not always in front of other people! Perhaps you might only... flirt a little less. In public, I mean. I cannot think it will cause much comment if we still talk, or sit with each other after dinner. Oh I wish you would stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I amuse you quite so much.”

“And why should I, when you do?”

She ended up laughing. “Because I was trying to be serious.” Elizabeth drew herself up straight and tried to look as composed and serious as a bas-relief of a judge. “Talk me as you might Mrs. Arbuthnot in front of other people. As a friend above all, I mean, and I shall endeavor to do the same.”

“And when we are alone, my dear?”

There was such heat in his gaze Elizabeth felt herself flushing.

Wellington smirked, stood, and went to stir up the fire, which had begun to die down.

“Why,” she said, turning her head to follow his progress like a sunflower with the sun, “Your Grace may talk to me however you like— and I will admit that in private, I like it very much when you flirt with me.”

He was very happy to oblige.

 

***

 

Marjorie, happy, as ever, to cement the alliance between Fitzwilliam and Wellesley families, and faced with the prospect of a week of rain, proposed a picnic dinner in the succession houses. This plan was met with relief and approval by nearly everyone, even Georgiana and the Earl, once they were assured they did not have to be present. Marjorie and Wellington settled on a day two days hence, when the Earl and Georgiana were already promised to a dinner celebrating a foundling hospital the late Lady Anne Darcy had helped to fund. Lord Stornoway, who was a doting but rather ineffective father, offered to attend whichever gathering Marjorie preferred him to attend. He was sent off to the charity dinner, “for,” said Marjorie, to Elizabeth and Mary Crawford, “managing _four_ little darlings all clamoring for my attention _with_ the addition two no doubt very traumatized little boys is beyond even my skill. The excellence of my governess cannot make up for it.”

Miss Crawford, who had dared the rain lest she and her sister come to blows over having to dine together every day for a week, raised her eyebrows at this news. “I thought Wellington usually spent his afternoons with his sons at Apsley House, teaching them to ride or load cannons or whatever it is Field Marshals think important to teach their heirs.”

“He usually does,” said Elizabeth. “And mostly he takes them riding, but it....” She hesitated.

“I don't think it's good for them, to be so cooped up with Mr. and Mrs. Jackson, especially while Wellington is there,” said Marjorie, watching the footmen set up rug and cushions in the middle of the orangerie. “The Duke of Wellington is in many ways an admirable man, but he's not the sort to urge his children to remain neutral about the divorce. He might even have encouraged them to pick sides. And I cannot imagine Kitty Jackson’s efforts to keep her sons close have resulted in them actually staying close to her. They are more likely to rebel. Or at least, I know Spencer and Julia would act out if I tried to cling onto them. Laurie, though... bless him, he takes so much after his father he probably wouldn't even notice a difference in behavior. He might not even understand what a divorce _is_.”

Miss Fairfax entered then, with Julia, Laurie, and little baby Margie, all of whom were giddy with excitement over an afternoon away from their studies.

“Remember,” said Marjorie, tweaking straight Julia’s sash, and smoothing down Laurie’s collar, “best behavior. Lord Douro will be a Duke someday.”

“Just as Papa and Spencer will be Earls,” said Julia, squirming away. “I know, I _know._ But will they play at guerillas with us?”

“You can ask them after we eat something,” said Marjorie.

“They won't know how to play at guerillas,” Laurie said in a stage whisper, tugging on Julia’s skirt. “They never met uncle Richard.”

“Miss Fairfax said Lord Wellington was in Spain too, like Uncle Richard, so they might know how to play at it.” Julia turned hopefully to Elizabeth. “Aunt Lizzy can explain if they don't— won't you Aunt Lizzy? Please say you will!”

Wellington was announced, the children arranged into their usual parade order, and the servants dismissed.

Marjorie moved forward like a ship in full sail, her white shirred muslin gown glowing against the greenery about them. “Your Grace! It is always a pleasure. I hope you do not mind that Miss Crawford is joining us? It is raining again; I cannot bring myself to banish her.”

“Of course not,” said Wellington, chivvying in his two boys before them. “Lady Stornoway, Mrs. Fitz, you recall my sons? Boys. Manners.”

The boys both bowed.

“Miss Crawford, I don't think you have ever met my sons?”

“I have not had that pleasure.”

“My eldest,” said His Grace, putting a hand on the taller boy's shoulder, “Arthur, the Marquess of Douro.” He rested his other hand on the top of his other’s son’s head. “And my youngest, Lord Charles.”

Both boys looked as if they took after their mother, in terms of comfort with their titles. They were clearly awed and unused to the presence of their father, who had spent most of their lives fighting abroad somewhere or other, and shaken by the breaking up of their household. Elizabeth smiled at them reassuringly, which won uncertain smiles out of them both.

“Lord Douro, Lord Charles, I have the honor of introducing my children to you,” said Marjorie, gesturing elegantly behind her. “This is my second eldest, Julia—” Julia curtsied, glancing at Miss Fairfax to make sure she had done so correctly “—my next, Lawrence, who we call Laurie... Laurie? _Laurie dear._ ”

Laurie was brought out of the earnest contemplation of whatever he had just found in his left nostril, hastily wiped his hand on his coat, and bowed.

Marjorie sighed. “And in Miss Fairfax’s arms you see my youngest, Marjorie, who we call Margie.”

Margie shyly buried her face in Miss Fairfax’s _fichu_.

They settled down to eat, the children eyeing each other with curiosity and venturing only to repeat the polite stock phrases which they had been drilled to deploy. They began to act a little more like children than aristocrats in training when little Lord Douro scorned talk of spillikins as a game ‘for babies.’

“And how old are you then?” Laurie asked, a little disgruntled. He was fond of spillikins. “You cannot be older than our brother Spencer and he still plays spillikins.”

“I am just turned nine,” said the Marquess.

Julia looked quite startled. “I am nine! When is your birthday?”

This was established as earlier than hers, to Lord Douro’s evident satisfaction.

“I suppose you are going to Eton in the fall,” said Julia, jealously. “I should like to go to school like my brother and our Spencer cousins, but grandpapa says I must stay at home with a governess.”

“Our mother wanted us to stay at home with a tutor,” said Lord Charles. “She likes us being at home and Mr. Jackson being at home, and if we were to go to Eton, we would not be home and Mr. Jackson would not be at home and she would be at home by herself, so she does not want us to go to Eton.”

The Stornoway children were all baffled by this. Boys went to Eton, end of story.

“Is Mr. Jackson your tutor?” Julia asked innocently.

“He’s _not_ our father,” said Douro, defiantly, which further baffled the Stornoway children. Wellington himself looked as if he were trying not to be amused by this shew of partiality, but checked it with a mild, “Douro, pass the cold beef to your brother, please.”

“Did you know,” said Elizabeth, in a stage-whisper to the children, “that we ate cold beef nearly every day we were in Spain?”

“Every day?” Laurie asked, much astonished.

This lead to a rousing discussion of the Spanish campaign, which was Julia’s favorite subject still. Elizabeth was not entirely sure why Julia should be so obsessed, but as Elizabeth herself had gone through a period of intense fascination with Greek mythology and epic from the age of nine to thirteen, and forced all her sisters to take part in imaginary games about the Trojan War, she felt she had no grounds to judge. Laurie followed Julia in whatever she did, in the absence of Spencer, and the Wellington boys were not as difficult as Elizabeth had feared. She could well see, in passing fits of peevishness or irritability how they might act out or be subject to sudden fits of temper; but if they could be engaged enough, which they were with her stories, they could forget the complexities of a home life they could not really comprehend.

Wellington she knew how to soothe out of his crotchets almost as soon as she saw signs of them— as the Countess Lieven had once observed, “When he is being pettish, Wellington only wants petting to be an agreeable creature once again”— and when that failed, a little teasing or a show of sympathy usually sufficed. With Marjorie’s capable hand at the tiller of their conversational barque, there were fewer and fewer things to upset any Wellesley, and their party was very soon a lively one.

Julia managed to contain her eagerness to play Spanish guerillas until they had all eaten and were poking about the detritus of grape stems and ham rind, but then launched into a moving plea. The Wellington boys, already very inclined to see themselves as the Noble Sons of the Great Duke of Wellington, and full up with Elizabeth’s most child-friendly stories of the Peninsula, were wild to play.

“Usually Spencer is colonel of the regiment, but you can be colonel this time, Lord Douro,” said Julia, graciously. She untied her sash and wrapped it about her neck and mouth.

“And what are you, my dear?” Wellington asked.

“Oh sir!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “Do not tell me you do not recognize the most famous guerrilla leader of these parts, Comandante Júlia?”

“My entire family had been killed by the French,” Julia informed him. “All of them. Even my dog. And I have no father or brothers because of the French so I must go after the French myself.”

“That sounds a very tragic history,” said Wellington.

“It is the most tragic thing,” Julia agreed happily. “I think also I had a fiancé but he was also killed by the French before my eyes, and he died very horribly and everyone cried to see it.”

“The French seem to have singled you out very particularly. I suppose your sister is also a guerilla?”

“Oh no, Your Grace, we usually make her the regimental surgeon since she cannot walk very far. If you get tired you go and sit with her and no one can attack you.”

“I am glad to hear it.” The Wellington boys were both conscripted to the British Army, as was Laurie, and ran off immediately to Portugal, i.e. the part of the succession houses devoted to flowers rather than fruit. The ladies were all deputized to act as the French Army, a role Mary and Marjorie interpreted as “staying put and drinking French wine.” The three of them (and the governess, Miss Fairfax, when she could be drawn out) were so engrossed in a discussion of Lady Jersey’s plans for a charity bazaar in support of the veterans hospital, they didn't notice that they were supposed to be on guard.

“Mummy!” cried Comandante Júlia, very scandalized. “You don't even have a picquet!”

“Oh dear,” said Marjorie, putting down her wine. “You have caught the French sleeping in their beds. It will be a very great victory for you.”

“No, no, but there has to be a guard,” insisted Comandante Júlia, whose sense of narrative was already highly developed. “You must have a guard and then the captain of the light company takes them out and then the rest of us surprise you and steal your eagle.”

“Our eagle?”

“The cake,” Miss Fairfax reminded Marjorie.

“Oh yes, quite,” said Marjorie. “Are you on reconnaissance, Julia?”

“Comandante!”

“Are you on reconnaissance, Comandante Júlia?”

“Yes!”

“Alright, report back that your aunt Lizzy is on sentry duty and we have hidden the eagle.”

“But you have done neither of these things.”

Elizabeth put down her wine and saluted. “Captain Elizabeth reporting for picquet duty, Marshal Marjorie!”

“Very good!” Marjorie said, passing the cake to the governess. “I hear a noise in the roses there. Go investigate it. We cannot have any witnesses seeing where we store the eagle for the night. It is a great military secret.”

This satisfied Julia, who scampered back to the British encampment. Elizabeth made a great deal of noise getting up and marching down her favorite path, thick with trellised roses. Elizabeth had been astounded by the sheer number and variety of roses in the succession houses when she had first married into the Fitzwilliam family, and had spent many a happy hour trying to catalogue and study them. They rose up about her like old friends. She paused to lightly run her fingertips over the velvety petals of a favorite.

There were whispers in tones she recognized and then the sound of footsteps.

“Who goes there?” Elizabeth called.

She rather expected little Laurie to launch himself at her knees and hug her into surrendering, but was instead surprised to find two strong arms wrapped about her waist.

“You make a very poor sentry, my dear,” Wellington said, pressing her against her chest.

Elizabeth wanted him, suddenly and fiercely. Desire flooded her mind, suffused every limb. “Oh Your Grace,” said she, tilting her head back, and trying to keep her voice quiet and steady, “the point was to be caught.”

“I rather thought so,” he agreed, pressing a kiss to her pulse point, before calling out to his eldest son that the sentry had been captured and they must rush into the French camp.

From the other side of the trellises there were the sound of children rushing on, halloing madly.

“Oh dear,” came Marjorie’s voice. “We have been routed. Ought we to surrender, Major Mary?”

“Certainly not, Marshal Marjorie! I shall take this British surgeon prisoner!” From the sounds of it, she had scooped up little Margie, and the children were all wild to get her back. Elizabeth hoped Mary would be overcome before Comandante Júlia thought to propose a prisoner exchange. She was quite happy to be held captive in Wellington’s arms, particularly as he was occupied tracing the blush rising up her chest and neck with his lips.

“I hope you did not treat all your prisoners of war this way,” said Elizabeth, trying to laugh off the overwhelming rush of desire.

He kissed the underside of her jaw, where it curved up to her ear. “Only you, my dear.”

“Good,” she murmured breathlessly. 

“Ha,” Wellington said, amused. “I thought you'd like this.”

“I must confess, I do. I suppose—” trying to pull herself together, which had very limited success while her mind was still muddled by wine and kisses “—I suppose it's because my husband and I had so little time or privacy while on campaign. He would usually just seize me whenever we had a free moment and pull me behind whatever locked door he could find.”

“And you enjoyed stealing away like that from the first?”

“Yes,” she admitted, trying to squirm away. This had the welcome effect of Wellington’s holding on tighter to her. “I found it far more thrilling than I felt I should. Why did you think...?”

Wellington sounded amused as he said, against the side of her neck, “Because you are a good girl, my dear, and for all your impertinence, always have been. And in my experience good girls tend to have been taught desire is a wicked thing, and like the idea of being forced to give into wickedness through no fault of their own.”

“Rake,” she protested, though breathlessly enough it sounded like an endearment. “But really, do stop now; we shall be looked for in a minute.”

He released her, to Elizabeth's slight disappointment, but after she had straightened gown and hair and began to move back, he gently seized her left wrist, and pulled her back for a kiss. “Is it your servant’s evening off?”

“Yes. Your Grace has excellent recall.”

“And Lady Stornoway doesn't send her maid to tend you?”

“Oh no, I usually shift for myself. That is, one of the ‘tween-stairs maids lights the fire and turns down the bed, but she's gone by the time I go up.”

“Then perhaps I might steal you away myself, very soon after you announce to the company you will retire to bed for the evening. I'll tell my valet I'll fend for myself this evening, after I take the boys back to Apsley House.”

“I should—”

“No shoulds, my dear— is this what you want?”

His look was too warm, too exhilarating; Elizabeth rather melted. “Yes.”

He kissed her forehead, with affectionate amusement. “Good girl.”

How she managed to get through the rest of the evening without blushing or seeming too distracted, Elizabeth did not know. But the children all seemed to have a marvelous time, and when Wellington left briefly to take his sons back home, Mary observed slyly, “Mrs. Fitzwilliam, you really must stop being quite so good with Wellington’s children. The poor man is besotted enough as is.”

“Oh hush, Mary,” said Marjorie. “Miss Fairfax might have heard you.”

“Miss Fairfax has eyes as well as ears,” said Mary, leaning back among the pillows. She seemed to be trying to mimic an odalisque as she did so, and languidly raised a hand overhead and then back towards the door, where Miss Fairfax was shepherding out the remnants of that day’s Anglo-Allied forces. “Lizzy dear, I feel I must drop a word of warning in your ear if no one else will.”

Elizabeth sighed. She really thought— with the exception of the stolen moment by the roses— that they had behaved themselves remarkably well. “Mary—”

“You may not be ready to hear all this, but you had better,” said Mary, and laid out some general precepts that had served her through what she termed her “stupider years of sleeping with men.” Most of this Lady Melbourne had already covered, but there were some good tips Elizabeth had not known.

Marjorie smirked into her wine glass the duration of this lecture and offered a concluding, “What so you say to all _that_ , Lizzy?”

“I am well aware of his interest,” said Elizabeth, coloring. “I hope my manner was not....”

“Your manner is... still subdued but almost back to what it used to be,” said Mary, “which is, I am now realizing, partly due to Wellington’s obvious preference. I scarcely pay attention to your blushes now, since you do it so frequently, but I see I should have kept a better watch on them, to see what they signified! Just have a care.”

“I think after all the mess his previous love affairs have caused, he would take particular care not to draw censure upon himself or Lizzy,” said Marjorie.

“Yes, but _you_ remember how it was when you had your first affair. One is apt to be so giddy one is not always careful.”

“It make shock you to know this, but I've only ever had Stornoway.”

Mary Crawford groaned. “Oh Marjorie! That makes me so horribly sad.”

“It seemed only fair,” said Marjorie. “He wouldn't ever sleep with anyone else— and he takes orders even better when we are alone than he does in public. I am never dissatisfied with _that_ aspect of our relationship.”

Mary made a disgusted noise.

Elizabeth said, a little uneasily, “I really thought Wellington behaved himself today.”

“Shockingly so,” agreed Mary. “It was only after the game was up and we were eating the eagle. I noticed he was always smiling when he looked at you. He has been much more overt in the past. I should advise him to be a little less public in his admiration if I were you.”

Elizabeth debated whether or not to tell Mary she had already done this, when Mary asked, slyly, “I think you like that he pays you public attentions. Indeed, I think you may have a _tendre_ for His Grace. Has he submitted his cannon to your inspection yet?”

“Mary!” hissed Elizabeth, blushing. “For God’s sake keep your voice down!”

“Why? Marjorie told the servants not to clean up until ten and it has only gone nine-o-clock.”

“Be kind,” chided Marjorie. “Lizzy's a country squire’s daughter at heart; she wasn't brought up to this as we were. It's probably taken quite a lot of soul searching for her to even admit that Wellington _was_ trying to flirt with her, let alone that she liked it. Don't press her for things she’s not ready for.”

“I truly didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, Mrs. Fitzwilliam,” said Mary, penitently. “I just know how wilfully blind you can be to things that you don't want to see, or that don't match up to your judgements of the world.”

“You make me sound like my father-in-law,” Elizabeth said, wrinkling her nose. “But thank you, I suppose. I know you could no more stop being outrageous than Napoleon could stop trying to conquer huge swaths of land.”

“Or your beau Wellington from defeating him,” said Mary, restored to smirking good humor. “I'm quite proud of you, for conquering the conqueror, while having so few of the usual weapons at hand. I always heard he liked his women well-dressed and here you are in mourning.”

“How ill-dressed can one be if one's mourning is made by a series of Parisian and London modistes?” Marjorie asked.

“I know there probably are... rumors,” Elizabeth said, unsure to ask what she chiefly wished to know.

Mary lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “Talk, of course, but nothing about your _definitely_  being Wellington’s mistress— just that he'd like you to be. I know you hate it, but your acclamation in the Commons will be a help to you. People will mock you for that more than your love life, or believe that there's enough truth to it they will assume that whatever Wellington wants, you won't give him.” She couldn't help herself from adding, “I suppose that's why Pascal’s been so terrifically amused, isn't it? That talk of your being the embodiment of British delicacy made you determined to act otherwise and you decided you'd let Wellington flirt with you?”

“Not exactly,” said Elizabeth. “Our talk in the Lords had more to do with my... uhm....”

“Dawning awareness?” supplied Marjorie.

“Yes, that—than anything else.” There were footsteps; she shot Mary a warning look, and they were chatting about the RAMC bill when Wellington returned. Mary and Marjorie faked yawns and feigned tiredness not long after; Mary departed, kissing the air above Elizabeth's cheek in order to whisper, “Don't do anything I wouldn't do!”

‘That leaves me rather a lot of room to manoeuvre,’ Elizabeth thought but did not say.

Marjorie rose and said, “I had better go attend to my correspondence while there is no one to distract me from it this evening. Stornoway and everyone aren't expected before midnight.”

Elizabeth waited for Marjorie’s footsteps to fade. “I rather think I shall retire for the evening.” Then, striving for nonchalance, she asked, “Will you come?”

“Gladly,” Wellington said, rising. He offered her a hand up, but merely walked beside her thereafter. Elizabeth was puzzled by this and was at the door to her room when she turned to ask if he would prefer her to change before coming to him. He had gone to open the door to his own room and, after glancing about to make sure there were no servants, swept Elizabeth up in his arms before she could speak.

“As promised,” he murmured, carrying her off. “I am a man of my word.”

She felt ridiculously thrilled; Wellington tossed her onto the bed before turning to lock the door, and then was upon her. She found herself pinned down and ruthlessly kissed, her veil and hairpins scattered, her gown deliberately deranged. He pulled at it to expose rather than to undress, caressing and kissing her with a hitherto undisplayed but delightful roughness, before taking her by main force.

Though Elizabeth would never have brought herself to admit the wish for this on her own, to have it teased out and then have the wish so immediately met, before the intrigued excitement of a new realized desire had faded, had her in a state where she peaked as soon as he entered her. This embarrassed her a little, but Wellington merely pinned her wrists down, over her head, and said, mock-chidingly, “My dear, you're quite mistaken if you think I shall stop after I’ve brought you off only _once._ You ought to know me better than that.”

He kissed her then, and began to thrust into her almost leisurely, bringing her close to her peak time and time again and then withdrawing and teasing her with airy, “Patience”s until she ended up in a state of such frustration she told him to take his patience to the devil.

“I shall never get over the irony of your being declared a model of feminine delicacy,” he said, but obliged her and continued on in the attentions he had been teasingly tapering off. She tried to arch up against him and he pressed down more heavily, tightening his grip on her wrists.

“Oh Christ,” Elizabeth said breathlessly. “I'm going to— sir, I—” She felt herself teetering madly on the brink.

“That’s it, that’s my girl,” he said, plunging into her with renewed energy. “Give into it, sweetheart. I want to feel you come apart.”

Elizabeth pulled a little against his grip on her wrists and got out a half-frantic, “I want to hold you.”

This surprised him, but he managed to release her wrists without deviating from the rhythm he had set. Elizabeth flung her arms about his neck and clung to him all the tighter. The sensation of building tension was agonizingly exquisite; she held her breath in anticipation. It took only a moment for it to reach a point of almost explosive release. Elizabeth buried her face against the side of his neck to muffle her cry as pleasure utterly overwhelmed her. She had never before reached so intense a climax, and felt almost close to swooning. Every part of her felt alight, down to her fingertips. Elizabeth had not known so complete a state of euphoria existed.

“Oh my love, are you trying to kill me?” Wellington asked raggedly, his rhythm erratic. “You feel too damned good to be real.”

She could not be coherent enough for speech and kissed him. It was with more enthusiasm than finesse that she did so, but this affected him more than anything else she could have done and he shuddered against her as he found his own release. For a moment he was heavy atop her, then shifted to the side, pulling her along, so that they could lie facing each other.

Elizabeth lay clinging to him for some time. She felt wickedly satiated. Wellington fussed over her, though fuss was not quite the right word. His manner was too matter-of-fact for that, as he petted and held her, whispering endearments. After she finally got up the energy to rise and perform the usual ablutions necessary after such a joining, he took off coat and boots and bid her come sit with him on the bed. Elizabeth abandoned shoes and shawl herself and made her slightly unsteady way back. It felt remarkably good to sit with her legs curled under her and her head resting on his shoulder. With a sort of brusque affection he bade her drink a glass of water, and, when she was done, stroked her cheek and kissed her gently, oddly sweetly, until the rapid beating of her heart calmed. This shew of care seemed a natural end to all that had come before. As thrilling as it was to be ravished, she would have felt uncertain, even unhappy, without these immediate proofs of affection, this marked display of gentleness, as if to underline the roughness with which he'd treated her before was just another marker of how sincerely he cared for her and her happiness.

“Enjoy yourself, my dear?” Wellington asked, still gently caressing her.

“Enjoy is too weak a word,” she replied, smiling up at him impishly.

There was such loving gentleness in his touch, as he stroked the hair out of her face, that Elizabeth sighed and closed her eyes. He kissed her forehead. “Sweet girl,” he murmured. “I grow fonder and fonder of you by the hour, it seems. You were magnificent.”

She laughed. “Your Grace is far too kind! You did most of the work. Did _you_ enjoy yourself?”

“I am hard put to recall a time I enjoyed myself more.”

“Is this your particular preference too?” Elizabeth asked, a little shyly.

Wellington chucked her under the chin and asked dryly, “However did you guess?”

Elizabeth blushed and laughed.

“Yes, my dear, it is; which is not to say I will demand to ravish you every time.”

“I wouldn't mind if you did!”

“Ha! I only meant to assure you I have been by no means dissatisfied so far. I am not sure I realized how much better physical intimacy is with someone with whom one is emotionally intimate.”

This puzzled Elizabeth a little, for she had turned to her husband for physical and emotional intimacy, often at the same time, and then she felt a little sad this had never been the case for Wellington. She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him, slow and lingering. They spent some time just kissing. There was something sweetly luxurious in doing so just for the sake of kissing, not as an inciting incident.

When she interrupted a kiss with an involuntary yawn, Wellington chuckled and stroked her cheek. “Come, love, I know I've exhausted you. If you want to fall asleep here, I'll carry you to your room. I know it only takes you about thirty seconds to drop off. I shall have you back before the others return.”

It was one of those offers that seemed to be said for the benefit of the asker rather than the askee; Elizabeth was tired enough to comply with only a token protest. After a moment’s hesitation, she undressed and took down her hair, neatly bundling everything together in her shawl so it would be easier to carry.

She felt oddly vulnerable to be only in her shift before Wellington; it covered so much less than her night rail and the linen was so much finer and thinner. Though why she should feel shy about this when he had just pinned her to the bed and ravished her, Elizabeth really did not know.

“I wonder if there is any aspect in which we shall not find ourselves compatible,” he mused, as Elizabeth curled up against his side and closed her eyes. His arms were still reassuringly about her; Elizabeth felt safe and comfortable and well looked after.

“You _are_ a Tory.”

“And you are so devoted a Whig?”

“Yes. I read Wollstonecraft and de Gouges in my idle hours, and stand on my dignity about the provenance of my sugar. I am a shocking radical.” Now that she had been encouraged to sleep, she found it elusive and said, “This evening seemed to work.”

“What do you mean?”

“How we treated each other before your children, I mean.”

“I suppose you include in that,” Wellington asked, sounding amused, “how I surprised you by the roses.”

“Perhaps especially,” she said, looking up at him fondly. “I like your attentions to a degree it is... it is somewhat difficult for me to acknowledge. And I know you enjoy giving them. As much as I know we shouldn't flirt with each other in public as much as we do, it seems hard for us both to give it up. This seems a more... workable solution, I suppose.”

To Elizabeth's surprise, this was a pattern of behavior that actually _did_ work. It became something of a game, to seek out the fleeting opportunities of privacy in which to fit in two or three seconds of outrageous flirtation, and remain markedly within the bounds of common friendliness otherwise.

Her disposition was naturally playful and she delighted in this sort of amusement. Wellington found the challenge intriguing and amusing. And thus in balance, they would have been content to pass many months more, had it not been for _Glenarvon._


	8. In which nobody likes 'Glenarvon'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to kudzery for the inscription on the painting, and eleith for the quick beta-work.

To raise money for the veteran’s hospital, Lady Jersey had decided to transform her ballroom into a sort of fête on the village green. Part of her conceit was to have various ladies of the _ton_ stroll about in Rousseauian simplicity, a particular contradiction first made popular by the deposed French queen Marie Antoinette at her private palace of Petit Trianon.

“Country living!” Lady Jersey declared, as Elizabeth and Marjorie entered her ballroom and looked about in astonishment. Marjorie dropped Julia’s hand in her shock, which Julia and Laurie took as permission to run wildly about the room, frightening the farm animals and impeding all the servants in their duties. “There is nothing like country living— as I am sure you know, Mrs. Fitzwilliam!”

Lady Jersey’s actual notion of country living did not match Elizabeth's experiences of it at all. She could think of no polite way to phrase this and merely smiled weakly.

“So you are both with this lovely cow,” said Lady Jersey, patting it delicately on the head. The cow was indeed lovely. It had been meticulously washed, and adorned with garlands of roses and orange blossom. Two equally meticulously scrubbed milkmaids attended her, in what were clearly the gowns they reserved for Sundays, and impractically fine lawn kerchiefs and aprons (a gift, Elizabeth later discovered, from Lady Jersey. For all her chatter and silliness, Lady Jersey was a kind, generous person at heart). “Darling creature! Do you not think cows are the prettiest of all farm animals? I do, they have such lovely eyes.”

“And what, pray, are we to do with this lovely cow?” Marjorie asked, sweet as treacle.

“Why you are to pretend to milk it and then serve people syllabub out of the bucket instead! And then take their shilling and put it in this pretty little basket.” She held up a wicker basket adorned with the same combination or roses and orange blossom as the cow.

“Wearing... these?” Marjorie asked. She eyed two straw bérgère hats, adorned with real roses and lavishly wide white satin ribbands.

“Well yes, and I have some pretty kerchiefs and prettier aprons trimmed with Mechlin lace for you to put on over your day dresses. It will look so charming!” Lady Jersey talked relentlessly at them until they gave in… with ill-grace on Marjorie's part, for wide-brimmed hats suited her not at all. Elizabeth had felt a little foolish out in her first public half-mourning gown of dark purple muslin, embroidered with little red and gold autumn leaves; she was almost relieved to hide this behind an apron and kerchief.

Neither she nor Marjorie really knew what to do with the cow. Of course Elizabeth knew theories of cow maintenance and breeding, and how much a stud fee ought to cost but had not been encouraged to learn to interact with cows outside of account books. There were plenty of young women in the village who wanted to work in the dairy, to earn something for their dowries, and the Bennets had been the only family in the little village attached to Longbourn to be in a position to employ.

“Of all the ridiculous...!” Marjorie muttered. “Help me with this stupid thing, will you?”

They could reach no very satisfactory arrangement of hat and hair and Marjorie was in a mood of rare but profound irritation before they hit on the idea of merely tying the ribbands about Marjorie's neck and letting the hat itself sag down between her shoulder blades.

“It looks bucolic enough,” said Elizabeth.

“Oh yes, as the daughter of a Countess, destined to herself be a Countess, I am just the sort of person who wants people to look at her and think, ‘cow!’”

Elizabeth pressed her lips together to keep from laughing.

“If Lady Jersey wasn't a patroness of Almack’s...! Oh damn it all. Here are people.”

“I shall place myself in the front lines,” said Elizabeth, saluting. She sat herself upon a hay bale and arranged her skirts to fall as elegantly as they could. Marjorie hid as much as she could behind the table set up with syllabub cups.

Wellington had been invited to come early and so did. Most members of the _ton_ would have arrived merely on time, but Wellington was used to precision in his schedule. His two boys were with him, looking about interestedly. Elizabeth took a moment to watch their progress about the room. The other ladies of the _ton_ seemed even more ill-at-ease about the various livestock and village games they had been assigned to supervise than Elizabeth and Marjorie. Mrs. Willoughby in particular looked mortified at the goats that were her particular charge.

It was very petty, but Elizabeth felt better for observing Mrs. Willoughby’s discomfort.

Wellington made a show of letting his children lead their explorations, but was beside Elizabeth soon enough. They boys managed to remember to bow before asking for the whereabouts of Julia and Laurie, and scampering off to join them. “Lady Stornoway, Mrs. Fitzwilliam,” Wellington said, lips twitching. “How very... bucolic.”

“Your Grace needn't look _quite_ so amused,” said Marjorie, tartly.

“I shall do my poor best to oblige your ladyship,” said Wellington, trying to keep a straight face. “It is only that I am reminded of two Dresden porcelain shepherdesses my mother kept on the mantle and insisted I never touch. They had the same strained smiles.”

“I would bet half-a-crown that you broke them both,” muttered Marjorie.

“Why no, Henry broke the second, and we both blamed Gerald.”

The children descended en masse, having managed to pick up several other sprogs of the aristocracy on the way, and demanded a game of guerillas.

“Mummy and Aunt Lizzy can't,” said Marjorie, in a syrupy tone. “We are stuck watching this _lovely cow!_ ”

“All for the sake of the real veterans of the Spanish campaign,” Elizabeth reminded her.

This did not appease Marjorie.

Lord Charles pulled on his father’s coattail. “But you'll play with us Papa, won't you?”

“Charles,” said Duoro, a little scandalized, “you can't ask Papa to play! He's got _business_.”

Wellington ruffled Lord Charles’s hair affectionately. “Business I have indeed, but if you will take me on as a warrant officer, I can be of some assistance.”

At the murmur of confusion Julia puffed up proudly and said, “ _I_ know what that is! It is an officer assigned to a regiment, like a surgeon.”

“Well done Comandante,” said Wellington. “I fear I must steal Mr. McGrigor’s identity and outst him from his role as Surgeon-General for the Anglo-Allied armies of Spain.”

Julia rather pompously explained what role the surgeon played and the children divided themselves up. It was discovered that the tutor to the Earl Stanhope’s children was actually a Frenchman and he was press-ganged into being the colonel of the French regiment— a role that alarmed him when he discovered the Duke of Wellington’s sons were to be his chief opponents. Wellington amusedly tipped him a half-crown and said, “Just let ‘em search for you for half-an-hour, and surrender quickly after that.”

It rather amused Elizabeth to see the children darting out madly in between fake pens and countryside games adjusted for a London ballroom. She did not find the rest of the event particularly amusing. True, she was happy to commiserate with her other society friends, and was very happy indeed to see her military friends from Hampstead present and to talk with them, but it was soon noted that the Widow Fitzwilliam was in half-mourning and the attention was unwelcome indeed.

Wellington had eyed her gown with a half-smile, but said nothing and had drifted away to talk to Lord Castlereagh after she looked rather anxiously at him, not sure she had the emotional resources to match his teasing. As soon as he left, other men began coming up to her. Elizabeth was polite to them, but was uncomfortably aware that for the first time in many years, she had no husband to swoop in and drive off the pests of the world. It reminded her of the dreadful few weeks where Mr. Collins had been trying to fix his interest with her— only a great deal worse, for though Mr. Collins was a foolish and rather ridiculous man, he was respectable and he did very sincerely love Charlotte (to the best of his abilities). His inability to understand a woman’s refusal, however, seemed to be universal.

Elizabeth attempted to turn down all invitations and compliments charmingly, but they persisted; her good humor wore thin; her refusals became more pointed. She did feel vaguely hypocritical about so welcoming the most outrageous of Wellington’s attentions while uncomfortably laughing off even a shy compliment from half-pay officers and landed gentlemen she had seen about London for the past four years, but thought to herself, ‘just because my gown is purple does not make me public commons. Liking the specific attentions of one man whom I know very well and trust with not merely my life but my reputation is a very different thing altogether.’

“One can be choosy,” said Marjorie, when Elizabeth vaguely said she was not enjoying all the eyes upon her. “One is not obligated to accept every compliment one is given, however men behave. Really Lizzy, you _can_ afford to be choosy. Richard left you very well provided for— which, now that I think on it, is probably part of the reason men are starting to pay so much public attention to you. If you’re terrifically upset by it all, just get Wellington to come back. He’ll frighten off all but the most determined.”

As uncomfortable as she was with the idea that she was now available for re-marriage, Elizabeth was much more uncomfortable with the idea that people might know how fixed Wellington’s interest was and she demurred. She instead grew more spirited.

Her most tenacious flirt was Mr. Willoughby, who seemed determined to annoy his wife even more than he had already. Elizabeth responded briefly, if at all to his inquiries, was markedly more friendly to those coming up for a glass of syllabub than she was to him, and rolled her eyes at Marjorie at his more outrageous bursts of Romantic and romantic feeling.     

“Oh dear Mrs. Fitzwilliam, I must have you or die,” Mr. Willoughby said dramatically, when all else failed.

“I shall be sure to send a note of condolence to your widow then,” replied she, dryly. “I think she shall enjoy putting on her blacks far more than I enjoyed putting on mine.”

Behind her, she heard Wellington snort with laughter.

“I think you have slain the fellow where he stood,” he said, when Mr. Willoughby embarrassedly went off.

“For a dead man, he is remarkably ambulatory.”

“Ha!”

“Good God, I had no idea what putting off my blacks would mean. I really thought people would respect I am in still in mourning. Half-mourning  is still mourning; I am still not over my husband and yet everyone acts as if it is an easy thing to move on from so profound a loss.”

Wellington looked down at her compassionately, but Lady Caroline Lamb came over then, and Elizabeth had to turn from Wellington to sell her a syllabub. Then, when Lady Caroline wandered off, looking vaguely haunted, little Lord Charles Wellesley plopped down on the ground beside Elizabeth’s hay bale, out of breath and a little peevish.

“Have some water, Charles,” was Wellington, noticing the rather sticky head leaning against his knee. “Surgeon’s orders. Mrs. Fitzwilliam, would you be so kind?”

She rose and fetched a glass; Lord Charles was fast asleep by the time she returned.

“Poor lamb,” said Elizabeth. “Too much excitement?”

Wellington looked fondly down at his son. “Too much cake. It sends him into the state of wildest energy before he abruptly passes out.  As soon as Miss Fitzwilliam can spare Duoro from his duties against the footmen roped into being the French army, I shall have to take them home.”

Elizabeth spotted the children and waved them over, with a cheery, “Colonel Duoro, your regiment has been granted home leave.”

The general outcry at this was loud and vociferous. He was necessary for the success of the mission, to withdraw now was unsporting in the extreme, etc.

“I am afraid part of your regiment is incapacitated,” said Wellington, fondly putting a hand to the top of Lord Charles’s head. “Come now, Duoro; we can't have your brother napping in the hay like a goat.”

Duoro unwillingly allowed this, and the children reluctantly called a halt to that day’s march and returned to their various parents (or at least their various governesses and tutors) with Marjorie’s occasional redirection.

Wellington picked up Lord Charles with an exaggerated groan to amuse little Lord Duoro. “I think your brother doubled his weight in cake.”

“Tripled,” contended Lord Duoro.

“Very true! You are becoming an expert mathematician, Duoro.”

Duoro quite puffed up with pride.

Elizabeth was unwillingly charmed by the sight of Lord Charles sleepily moulding himself to his father’s hold, putting his arms about Wellington’s neck. “I hope he won't have the stomachache tomorrow.”

“He never does,” said Lord Duoro. Then, after his father looked pointedly at him, managed a bow and a technically correct but very rushed, “Goodbye-Mrs.Fitzwilliam-it-was-nice-to-see-you.”

She curtsied with an over dramatic, “Fare thee well, my lord Duoro. Until we meet again!”

“Probably in a day or two,” said Wellington, amused. Julia had recruited the Wellington boys as permanent allies to her cause, and they were often meeting up to play in parks, under the supervision of tutor or governess, even when Wellington was in France. “By the by, my dear, I am honor-bound to go to Prinny’s for what promises to be an interminable dinner this evening.”

She had not yet spent enough time with him to be content at the loss of any evening and struggled to hide her disappointment.

Wellington was not displeased to see this. If they had been alone, he probably would have chuckled and kissed her. As it was, he looked down at her with unguarded fondness. “Are we riding tomorrow morning?”

“I rely on you for that,” she said, trying to tease. “Lord Matlock would never hear of my stirring out of doors on my own—”

She intended to add, ‘in this weather—’ for it was still cold, blustery and very wet, even for March, but grew distracted at the sight of Lady Caroline Lamb, who was hovering in the purposeful way of someone who wishes to be noticed. “Lady Caroline? May I be of some assistance to you?”

“Oh _no_ ,” said Lady Caroline. “Pray do not let me interrupt.”

“Until tomorrow, then,” said Wellington, and strode out.

“Caro,” said Marjorie, sweetly, as she re-tied  Julia’s sash, “what is that you want?”

It soon became clear that Lady Caroline was extremely upset not to have been included in Lady Jersey’s bazaar.

“Caro, you must forgive us, we did not know you cared about either charity, or veterans of the Napoleonic Wars,” said Marjorie.

Lady Caroline said, pettishly, “No one ever asked. It is because of Lady Jersey, is it not? It isn't like she has any grounds to object to my behavior. Her mother-in-law was the mistress to the Prince Regent! And if she thinks it is a different case because the Royal House of Hanover enters into it—”

“Caro!” Marjorie exclaimed, looking pointedly at Julia and Laurie, who were a little too fascinated at this talk.

Lady Caroline ignored her. “Lady Jersey has to take such a high moralistic tone— and it is all hypocrisy of the highest degree! I have done much less than her own mother-in-law— much less than _my_ own mother-in-law—”

“No one is annoyed with you over the infidelity,” hissed Marjorie, clapping her hands over Julia’s ears (apparently trusting that Laurie was not bright enough to follow the conversation). “No one but Matlock, and high sticklers of his ilk! It is all at your _indiscretion_ ! Caro, everyone feels _sad_ sometimes, but we do not carry on like a Shakespearean heroine, and pretend to cut off our soulmarks in public!”

This was in reference to a ball Elizabeth had been both saddened and gladdened to have missed, shortly after Lady Caroline and Lord Byron ended their infamous affair. In a very bad attempt to convince Lord Byron they were soulmates, Lady Caroline had attempted to cut off her soulmark and fling it in his face, but was hampered by this in her choice of tool (the stem of a broken wine glass), and her sudden realization in the middle of this that cutting off one’s soulmark was actually very painful. Her mother-in-law Lady Melbourne had swooped in, ripped off her turban, and wrapped the fabric about Lady Caroline’s wrist.

“Come on Julia, Laurie,” said Elizabeth hastily. “Let us go get something to bring back for Miss Fairfax.” It was her day off, and she had elected to visit her former guardian, Colonel Campbell. “What do you think she might like?”

By the time they had purchased a selection of farm animals made of spun-sugar and marzipan, Lady Caroline Lamb still had not finished her bitter lamentations on her favorite subject, Lord Byron.

“—and then he—”

“Caro,” interrupted Marjorie, in tones sweeter than the syllabub they were serving, “I need you to understand that I am not emotionally invested in this.”

Lady Caroline was speechless with offense and incredulity.

Elizabeth put her hands to her mouth, trying to keep her eyes wide so that she could not be accused of laughing. Laurie and Julia did not quite understand what was going on, but did not care. They were tired, and began complaining that they wanted to go home.

“Yes, my dears, it’s nearly time to go. Let’s go look for Lady Jersey and take our leave. Your aunt Lizzy will stay with the cow.”

“Why can she not come with us?” asked Julia, suspecting this would mean it would take even longer to leave.

Elizabeth had suspected Marjorie had not been referring to the literal cow, but that would be impolite to point out. She said, cheerfully, “Oh, because I do so miss the country! I was never much in London until I married your uncle Richard.”

“Yes, your aunt Lizzy is so fond of flowers and nature, very Rousseauian of her,” said Marjorie, ushering her children away.

“Mrs. Fitzwilliam,” said Lady Caroline, with a sort of stiff, wounded pride, “I should warn you, the Duke of Wellington is something of a rake.”

Elizabeth couldn’t help an involuntary snort of laughter. She really hadn’t meant to, and apologized, but before she could get out anything coherent, Lady Caroline said, “I mean only to warn you! His Grace is a charming man, but a rogue, and when you are between a prig and a rogue, as you are with your father-in-law and your late husband’s commander, you are between the worst two extremes of the male sex. Oh, how I hope they will not trap you!”

“Surely not,” said Elizabeth, endeavoring to be serious, but still half-wheezing with laughter over someone warning her ( _her_ !) that the Duke of Wellington was a rake. She, who had a more recent, if not more intimate knowledge of _that_ aspect of his character than anyone else in London!

Lady Caroline sighed and shook her head. “Oh you poor, sweet innocent. You have no idea! None! Oh I wish I could get through to you,” and wandered off.

Elizabeth summarized the interview to Marjorie later that evening, when the children were in bed and concluded with an impish, “I wish I knew what she meant by that parting shot.”

“Perhaps you might feature in the novel she keeps threatening to write,” suggested Marjorie, dryly.

Elizabeth faked a shudder. “I hope not.”

 

***

 

At Easter, which came mid-April that year, the situation in the North was just as bad, and Darcy wrote to ask the Fitzwilliams to continue hosting Georgiana. Elizabeth was particularly happy to do this, since the absence of Darcy gave her an excuse not to pay the customary Easter visit to Rosings. She spent a much better time at Matlock House, spirits bolstered by a flying visit of Wellington’s from Cambrai, to settle what he had hoped was the last of Kitty’s debts. (It was not settled. Wellington was highly annoyed until Elizabeth reminded him this meant they might see each other again in May.)

At the end of April came Elizabeth’s twenty-fifth birthday; the first of many birthdays without her soulmate. Elizabeth had not much wanted to celebrate, and was late to breakfast because she spent so much time at her jewelry case, looking over the presents her husband had given her in years previous. He had been fond of giving her jewelry, and it seemed to her rather fitting that she had not worn anything but jet while in the deepest throes of grief.

Marjorie gave Elizabeth rather pointed gifts from her, her husband, and children, as soon as everyone was at table: a formal ball gown of pearl gray satin, a charcoal gray walking gown and lavender pelisse, and a violet riding habit.

“Half-mourning suits you so much better than full,” said Marjorie.

“Thank you,” said Elizabeth, setting the riding habit back in the tissue paper. She had not entirely retreated into her blacks, but she had threatened to; and while wearing her purples and grays, kept to home, and her circle of veterans and widows.

“I do like the color of that habit,” said Stornoway, feeling he had to make some comment. “Rather a nice purple. Who is it from?”

“You,” said Elizabeth, reading the note with it. After the laughter had somewhat died down, she smiled and said, “Not to worry, my lord, I am well aware Marjorie chose it and merely charged it to your account. I thank you very much for the gift.”

The earl gave her a bank draft, and informed her that her horse had been newly outfitted as well.

“I have been riding so often, I did feel the want of a new saddle,” said Elizabeth, rather touched and surprised he had even noticed how often she had been out riding at all. “This is generous indeed, sir.”

From her parents and sisters came various books and baubles; from the Gardiners some lilac silk and ribbon with which to trim it; Honoria and Miss Duncan had sent her a new riding crop and hat; Lady Catherine a very long letter full of advice, as well as some very nice black lace; Sybil had sent her a fan inlaid with Tahitian mother-of-pearl on the handle; Arabella a lavender parasol; Darcy and Georgiana had bought her the (rather expensive) version of Byron’s _Hebrew Melodies_ that came with sheet music; her friends had sent her various letters, receipts, and bits of handiwork, as suited their finances and their dispositions; and Wellington had sent her a suspiciously small box.

Elizabeth was perplexed by this, for she had not really expected him to get her anything, and was a little afraid that someone might read into his giving her a present all that she presently wished to conceal. She made sure to save this for last, and to open it where Stornoway and the Earl were distracted by a report in the newspaper that, after several delays, Lady Caroline Lamb’s novel, _Glenarvon,_ would at last be printed the second week of May.

The box contained a strung Indian bracelet of emeralds and pearls, magnificent enough to startle her, and a note more explicit than any letter Wellington had yet sent her:

‘ _Yr most faithful devotee hopes this offering will find him favor with his patron goddess. When you leave off your jet, pray wear this about yr left wrist, and I hope you will think of me sometimes when you do. Whenever you think of me, wherever I may be, you may feel certain that my thoughts and wishes are centred on you. God bless you_ . _Wn._ ’

“Oh Lizzy, that is so very pretty,” said Georgiana, eagerly.

Elizabeth palmed the note, stuffing it up her sleeve, before turning the case to Georgiana. “Yes, rather!”

Her father-in-law looked at the case as well. “Is that from Wellington, Mrs. Fitzwilliam?”

“Er, yes, sir, I believe it is.”

Georgiana looked surprisingly crestfallen by this news.

Elizabeth turned over the bracelet and case to Lord Matlock, feeling really quite flustered. It was the sort of gift a man might bestow upon his mistress— indeed, she thought, vexed, that was exactly what it was— so why did Wellington go and make a public display of it? “I wonder if in good conscience I ought to keep it. He oughtn’t to have given me so expensive a present.”

The Earl looked around and inside the case, somewhat puzzled at the lack of note. Elizabeth folded her hands before her on the table, with the appearance of primness, and pressed her right palm down, over the cuff of her gown, and the note itself. The Earl examined the bracelet and said, “It is... excessive, but then again, the services you rendered him this January and February were extraordinary. I do not doubt he was lead a little astray in his gratitude. Wellington seems to have a habit of it.”

“What do you mean, my lord?” asked Elizabeth, really unsure.

“His Grace was gracious enough to agree to sit for a portrait by Lawrence, for my gallery— and insisted on paying for the whole thing himself. Frame and all. Really most kind of him. When I protested, he said he could never repay the assistance we’d given him, so we might as well accept a token.” The Earl could not entirely hide how flattered he was by this.  

Marjorie had been smirking into her teacup, but when Elizabeth glanced down the table at her, said innocently, “The Duke of Wellington is a man who can afford to be generous, though how very like a man!”

“Eh?” asked Stornoway.

“Look at that work—” holding out a hand for the bracelet, which the Earl promptly gave her “—Indian made, I wager. I daresay Wellington realized it was Lizzy’s birthday last week, when he was here, went hunting through his house, and found this relic of his Indian campaigns. He thought to himself, ‘women like jewelry!’ and stuck it in a box without any further thought.”

As this was exactly the sort of thing Stornoway would have done, if Marjorie hadn’t the management of him, everyone laughed. Even Georgiana let out a giggle, and seemed reconciled to so showy a gift.

Marjorie continued on, “I think it might even be too big for Lizzy. Let me see?” She clasped it about Elizabeth’s left wrist. Her lips twitched, when she felt the layer of paper between muslin and skin, but she gave no other outward sign of her discovery. “Look at that! Far too big. It will slide right down to your elbow. Hm. If you take two of the emeralds out, it might work. And you might have the stones turned into earrings.”

“Have the jeweler charge it to me,” the Earl offered grandly. “I am well pleased to have Wellington as an ally, Mrs. Fitzwilliam, and I know it is in great part thanks to you that it is so.”

Elizabeth hoped the men of the party would attribute her blushes to this tribute than anything else.

 

***

 

Wellington’s birthday was the beginning of May, very shortly after her own at the end of April. She had not really planned on doing more than sending him a letter, but was now rather stymied. If she’d still possessed the miniature, that would have been an appropriate exchange, for something as intimate as a bracelet to cover her soulmark, but she had given that to him at the very start of their liaison.

‘It wasn’t even a good portrait of me,’ she thought, annoyed, and decided that a heartfelt gift would not _entirely_ suit her feelings. Elizabeth cast her mind over something that might be equally meaningful but something that might also embarrass him to open in front of others. She hit upon what she thought quite an ingenious solution and, after first cashing the cheque her father-in-law had so kindly given her, sought out Georgiana. “Will you come with me on an errand, Georgiana? I should like to buy a violin, as a present for a friend, and I haven't the first idea of how to go about purchasing one.”

“I do not play the violin— merely the harp and the pianoforte.”

“Ah,” said Elizabeth, “but you also understand orchestral performances and talk about the use of strings, and all _I_ can say is that I saw there were strings, and some of them were probably violins. Do not force me to blunder on in my ignorance on my own!”

Georgianna was very happy to be of use, and happier still to have time alone with Elizabeth. They spent a very pleasant afternoon testing instruments, and browsing through sheet music. Elizabeth was surprised there were not very many songs that mentioned Wellington; though found this made sense when she tried to find a rhyme for ‘Wellington’ managed only to think up ‘Skellington.’ Such a pairing did not strike the right note of rah-rah-Britannia-rules-forever as all the other popular songs about the war. She passed over the popular ditties that did mention him, as they included couplets she knew he would hate (“Ask the noble son of Erin/ how Bonaparte is farin’!” was Elizabeth's particular favorite) and instead settled on a sea shanty, which was not at all the right branch of the service, but at least had several amusing rhymes for “Boney,” and seemed a relatively simple tune to play.

She could not bring herself to write anything the equal of his note to her— indeed, she was embarrassed and confused by it— and settled on something playful: ‘ _Your Grace, I pray you do not cast this violin into the fire; no one_ now _doubts your dedication to the army. Indeed, I should think this violin supports your status as best soldier in Europe, for it gives you the ability to master Bonaparte in yet another medium. If anyone else gets you a better present than_ that, _I shall be terrifically put out, for I thought myself tremendously clever when I thought to purchase this for you, and also did not like to think anyone else would be able to please you as much as I. Believe me ever yr friend— E. B. Fitzwilliam.’_

Elizabeth was slightly nervous, after sending this, that she might have gone too far in teasing him. Wellington had spoken lightly of flinging his violin into the fire, and dedicating himself to the army after Lord Longford refused his permission to let a penniless young officer marry his beloved sister Kitty (which, in retrospect, had been a rather smart decision on Lord Longford’s part), but he might be offended to have anyone else speak so. She consulted her blotting paper and reassured herself that her tone had been arch, but she had sweetened it with praise and true affection. Her gift might be considered an effort to associate what he had once loved and given up, in the light of pleasure once more. To bring music back to someone’s life could never be an ill wish.

She heard from Mrs. Kirke not long after Wellington’s birthday, much to her relief. Mrs. Kirke heard from her husband, who’d heard from Wellington's favorite aide-de-campe, Lord Fitzroy Somerset, that Wellington had let out a bark of laughter when opening Elizabeth's present; and, later heard Wellington trying and failing to tune the violin himself, when he was supposed to be attending to his correspondence. Wellington’s own note to her about it, appended to a longer letter about his latest argument with Blücher, read, ‘ _Minx! I have just now opened yr gift and find it v. obliging of you to give me something to tuck under my chin when you are not there, as it is_ yr _proper place, first and foremost. Rest assured that it is_ still _your place whenever you would wish it— only yr present is enough to make up for your presence, a joke I am stunned you did not make. By now you shld know no one can please me quite as you do— dear girl, I count the days ‘til I may see you again with so much impatience Fitzroy thinks I hate living in France and have concealed it thus far out of a sense of duty. It is not a country that is fond of me, after all; I don't know why I shld be fond of it, especially since it is a country you are not in.’_

Elizabeth gave into sentiment and briefly raised the letter to her lips when she finished reading it. She found it difficult, still, to think of the future. It was still dark with loss, characterized by continued widowhood, by the ongoing lack of her soulmate, but now she thought, ‘I shall take a great deal of pleasure scandalizing Miss Jenny Bingley and the Honorable Miss Julia Fitzwilliam during their first love affairs, with tales of my grand romance with the Duke of Wellington. How shocked they will be, to hear their Aunt Lizzy was capable of provoking such passion!’

When Wellington did come back to England, he was in a better mood than she had seen him since his divorce. He had missed playing the violin (though he would not admit it, even when Elizabeth tried to tease it out of him in private), and it seemed that the last of Mrs. Jackson’s creditors had finally been found out. Two weeks of work, and all would be settled and Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, and Mrs. Catherine Pakenham Wellesley Jackson could avoid each other all the rest of their days.

“Knightley put this month to good use, but I wish I could have been here for your birthday,” Wellington said, when they had reunited more privately that evening. “In retrospect, I ought to have given you the bracelet in private.”

“I was annoyed, but it is perhaps better you did not,” said Elizabeth, happily tucked against his shoulder and under his chin, “for Marjorie convinced everyone— including some overly interested servants fussing with the coffee pots— that you had forgotten it was my birthday until it was nearly time to leave for France again, and went about your house looking for something suitable you could throw in a box. Now, after June, I might _actually_ wear it in public.”

She had put it on in private, just to please him.

Wellington was indeed pleased, and toyed with it as they talked. “I hope it was a good birthday.”

“An odd one,” she admitted. “But it was my first as a widow. Of course it would be odd. Aside from being a little glum that evening, and having a good cry over Colonel Fitzwilliam when I was alone that night, I managed to make it through turning five and twenty without any real disasters.”

“Oh God,” he said, hand stilling on her wrist, “are you really only five and twenty? I thought you much closer in age to Colonel Fitzwilliam.”

Elizabeth gave him a look. She was not pleased at the inference she looked older than her five and twenty years.

He realized that there was no possible way to recover from that, but tried to explain, “Dear girl, I turned seven and forty last week.”

“I can see that doing so put you in a mood,” she replied dryly, and pointed out that his other two English favorites, Mrs. Arbuthnot and Lady Shelley, were, respectively, twenty-six and sixteen years younger than the husbands to whom they were devoted. “If you’d had dependants my age, I would be alarmed,” said Elizabeth, “but really, it had not even occurred to me to wonder about your age, or if you might be too old for me. I suppose I was foolish for having paid no attention to it when I first found myself... attracted to you; but I never felt any... intimidation or inequality on that head. You do not mind, do you?”

“It is something of a common fantasy for men my age, to enrapture a woman so much their junior,” he replied, dryly, “so rather the opposite, my dear. And I confess to another fantasy.” At her raised eyebrow, he tugged on her nightrail. “Would you consider taking this off? You have the prettiest figure, and it gives me great pleasure to see it.”

Elizabeth blushed. Like most ladies of her station, she was rarely unclothed. When left to her own devices, it probably amounted to thirty seconds every day— fifteen to change from nightrail to shift in the morning, and fifteen to change from shift to nightrail in the evening—  and when washing with pitcher and basin was not sufficient, she put on a proper flannel bathing gown before getting in a tub. It had taken her nearly a month to be comfortable taking all her clothes off before Colonel Fitzwilliam.

“If it makes you uncomfortable you needn't, but I do rather think we are on terms of enough intimacy—”

“I— I suppose,” she said uncertainly.

He rested his hand on the back of her neck; she felt almost annoyed at how much it calmed her. “Would it help to keep the bracelet on?”

“Oddly, yes,” said Elizabeth. She felt surprisingly relieved at this idea. “It seems stupid since you have seen my mark, but—”

“Habits of modesty are always difficult to entirely throw over for any woman of good breeding. And on that note— would it help if I was the one to undress you?”

“Yes,” she admitted, coloring. “I should feel a great deal less guilty.”

“Dear girl,” he said, kissing her cheek, “there’s no need to be embarrassed. I had an inkling it might be the case. You will tell me if I am ever too rough with you?”

“Yes and rather vehemently too.”

“Good.” He abruptly pinned her against the pillows and began to kiss her. Elizabeth was at first nervous— this felt oddly monumental an intimacy— but after a few minutes, she relaxed and sighed, enjoying the weight of him on top of her, and began to pay less attention to her nerves and more to physical sensation. He was so good at remembering what she liked, and deft and experienced enough to correctly interpret her hesitations and sighs and gestures. Then, too, there was a relief in absolving herself of responsibility. It was her choice, true, and Elizabeth knew she had made it, but it was difficult to feel guilty about it in the moment when someone else was doing all the work. All she had to do was express her preference and accept its reality when it had been skillfully acted upon.

It oddly helped to have him resting in the cradle of her thighs, heavy atop her, as he pushed up the hem of her nightrail— that at least, was familiar— and he laid back atop her so immediately after yanking the nightrail almost brusquely off over her head, Elizabeth did not have a chance to feel frighteningly exposed. Wellington kissed her again, and again, until uncertainty had been drowned in sensation, and then pushed himself up to pull off his own nightshirt.

The confirmation that he was as physically fit as he had always appeared to be, and as she had felt through his clothing, was a delightful one. Elizabeth was surprised to see how few scars he had. Colonel Fitzwilliam had had scars all up and down his arms from an exploded canon, and in the early days of her marriage, she had enjoyed mapping them out with her fingertips. Even in the later days, to trace them was a comfort, as it might be to wander a familiar patch of ground. Elizabeth tentatively reached out to touch Wellington's bare shoulder and asked, “How is it you have no scars at all?”

“I took very good care not to be hit,” Wellington replied dryly. “I think I was only ever struck by bullets two or three times in my life. I was grazed by a musket ball at Seringapatam, and I was justly repaid for laughing at General Alava’s getting hit by a musket ball to the backside by getting shot off my horse in very near the same place.” He moved her hand to it. “It still pains me from time to time. Be the good girl you are and rub it better for me. In India, the lower castes thought you could rub any injury away.”

“You haven’t even a scar there,” Elizabeth protested, propping herself up on an elbow to look.

“The ball glanced off the guard of my sword.” But it was said absently. Wellington was now studying her with a pleased air, as if to say he did not care to think of past injuries when there were present pleasures on offer. “You have so wonderfully fine a complexion, my dear.”

“A little too fine, I always thought. I not only tan too easily, I blush at everything.”

“I like your blushes. I am always charmed by not only how little you can conceal your feelings, but how modestly you do display them.” There was a smile lurking at the corner of his mouth, as he studied how far down her blush went. “What a tease you are, keeping all this beauty to yourself, letting me see it only in part for so long. I had better map it all before you hide it away again.”

This was delightful. Wellington was as thorough in studying her as he was in the terrain of any battlefield, his touch at first light and teasing, before he determined where a rougher caress would be more appreciated, and drove Elizabeth onward to pleasure. After he had petted and made much of her, and she had tidied herself, Wellington enjoyed a second, unhurried series of explorations. It was clear he was delighted that she now relaxed into his touch, at the proof she trusted him enough to be vulnerable, to present herself to him without any barrier.

Elizabeth found his gentle touches against her bare skin as soothing as the more clothed caresses he usually bestowed upon her, after they had both finished. Indeed, there was a particular intimacy in laying bare skin to bare skin under the bedclothes. It was one she was surprised to discover she had missed. When Wellington pulled her against him, his chest to her bare back, his arm about her waist, his fingertips resting lightly on her bracelet, Elizabeth felt relaxed in a way she hadn’t since Waterloo. It was difficult to rouse herself at the servant’s bell; she did not want to pull herself out of this feeling of pleasurable peacefulness, or remove herself from the pocket of warmth in the bedclothes.

But when she woke a second time, in her own bedroom, her sense of contented ease had not vanished. Indeed, Elizabeth felt it settle about herself, as if she had put a new shawl about her shoulders. There was the pride and pleasure in the newness of it; and an almost contradictory happiness in the feeling of deepened familiarity. She wondered now, how she could have been uncertain, how she could have been afraid to be vulnerable before him. There was always risk in the deepening of a relationship, to be sure— but the reward was always proportional to it.

Elizabeth could not speak of it outright at breakfast, but quoted a little at random, Wordsworth’s line, “Bliss it is, in this dawn to be alive,” to which Wellington smilingly responded that she had an odd notion of dawn, considering it was now half-past ten. But there was a warmth in his look, and he attached himself to her side with more tenderness than before.

They had fallen into the habit, while in England, of being always together when going out, if it was possible to do so (the strictures of mourning, and the secrecy necessary for certain state functions often limited them)—everything from rides outdoors, to social calls, to Wellington’s sittings with Sir Thomas Lawrence. On the third or fourth of these (but the first of Wellington’s May visit) they arrived five minutes late, something so out of character for Wellington that Sir Thomas had been on the point of sending out a servant in search of them.

“It is entirely my fault we are late,” Elizabeth told Sir Thomas, penitently. “I made His Grace stop at Dodsley’s bookstore. _Glenarvon_ is out and I was mad with impatience to own it. But I shall make it up to you, sir, I promise.”

“Is that an offer to read it aloud, Mrs. Fitzwilliam?” Sir Thomas asked, smilingly. He seemed, on the whole, to be relieved when Elizabeth accompanied Wellington to his studio, and had gone so far as to admit to Elizabeth that Wellington was a much easier and willing subject when she was there to entertain him.

“If it will not distract you, I should be delighted.”

“No— and I confess to some curiosity about it,” admitted Sir Thomas, “especially since publication was pushed back so far. That must speak to some very interesting revisions.”

“I confess to a rather prurient curiosity as well,” admitted Elizabeth. “I was in Spain when Lady Caroline so dramatically revealed her soulmark to a ballroom full of people, but my in-laws were present, and my sister-in-law Lady Stornoway is Lady Caroline’s cousin and has told me of everything that led up to so dramatic a moment.”

“Caro Lamb is a dramatic soul,” said Wellington. “It seems to me perfectly fitting that when she realized she could not actually die of love, despite her best attempts to do so, she turned a novelist. But my sympathy is all for her. I have never met Byron, but he seems a pain to have as a dinner guest, let alone as a lover. I have no doubt he treated her very shabbily.”

It amused Elizabeth to read _Glenarvon_ aloud as much as it amused the two gentleman to hear it. They paused only to try and identify the people Lady Caroline Lamb was satirizing. This happened to be most of society. The Fitzwilliams even appeared, fairly early on into the novel. The heroine, Calantha (Lady Caroline Lamb so thinly disguised even the most exhibitionist courtesan at a masked ball would be embarrassed), was persecuted by the literally Byronic hero of the title, at a dinner given by the “Earl of Morekey, or rather, at the home of his daughter-in-law, Lady Seylee.” Lady Caroline went on to write:

 _Lord Morekey had not much use for his daughters, whom he all sent away, as soon as it could be easily contrived, but with his son’s wives, he was excessively pleased, for it proved his sons were, respectively, neither as stupid or as scandalous as first appearances would suggest. More valuable than rubies, a good wife! Lady Seylee was the crown jewel of His Lordship’s collection, with his second son’s wife, Mrs. Fothingham, an equally valued ornament, though not in the least of equal provenance, for His Lordship’s sister had prised Mrs. Fothingham out of the Kentish countryside and provided the necessary polish to make her worthy of display for as long as half the year. Lady Seylee had the honor of year round display. She welcomed Calantha with all the shows of friendliness and few of the actual practices, for she always arranged her table to amuse herself— indeed, there was no other amusement for her, at so_ seemingly _moralistic a table as the one presided over by her father-in-law— and to that end had given Lord Glenarvon to understand he was to lead in the lovely Calantha...._

This was amusing, but not alarming. Elizabeth paused only to say, “Oh dear, my father-in-law will not be terrifically happy about this.”

“No, I cannot think he will be,” said Wellington, badly attempting to stifle a laugh behind his hand.

“Your Grace,” said Sir Thomas, in mild reproach.

His Grace refolded his arms and once more assumed a look of cool seriousness.

Elizabeth did have to stop upon reaching a passage that dealt with her more explicitly:

_The Earl of Morekey now set himself against Calantha. He was a model of gentlemanly hypocrisy. To give but one example, we must turn to the disgraceful way in which he used his second son’s widow._

_The second son of the Earl of Morekey ended a valiant career in an honorable action that wounded him mortally. He died in the arms of his wife, after she struggled to him through the mud of an unforgiving French field. Poor lady, how she washed his wounds with her tears and salved him with pity and love; but all her efforts were in vain. To the care of his father the least loved son of Morekey commended his young widow, trusting that the joy with which his father had received the news of his true match would ensure his widow a comfortable life, free from harm. Alas for him! The colonel should have realized what it meant, that his father suggested Mrs. Fothingham would do better to follow the drum than remain at home._

_The Earl cared for her only as proof that he had maintained the high standard of his family and married all his children off to their True Matches, of which there was one and could only be one, as ordained by God. The Earl did not care for Mrs. Fothingham as a person, for the life of virtue, simplicity, and sacrifice in which she engaged with such cheer and charm, was so alien to his own nature, full as it was of sin and complicated dealings with devils, all to advance himself and his agendas._

_For half a year he could feign virtue enough Mrs. Fothingham did not seem out of place; and indeed, everyone in society talked up the Fothinghams as moral exemplars. But to have this lady with him all year round, forever and ever...! Her true virtue, in the love and devotion she shewed for her dead soulmate, would badly show up the apathy and abandonment that characterized the Earl’s feelings for his son, and so reveal his own hypocrisy. What was to be done?_

_It so happened that the bravery and virtue of this lady, brought up in the countryside as she was and therefore untouched by the corruption of society manners, caught the eye of her late husband’s commanding officer. This man, the Duke of Tintagel, was sorely grieved at the loss of his own wife, who had left him for her true match, after having tricked him into matrimony in the first place. He came from a family cursed as if by some bad fairy to love only those who could not make them happy. It were in vain to list the disappointed hopes and romantic follies of these brothers. The Duke’s sudden divorce was but the latest on a list that would stretch out to doomsday._

_Just as her husband had gone to battle for the Duke, out of duty and friendship, so did the widow, over the matter of the Duke’s divorce. The battle was won. Society accepted the Duke and pitied him as they ought. The Duke began to rely on Mrs. Fothingham more than any of his aides-de-camp... and she was a little too good in her defense of the Duke to society, and a little too kind to one who was suffering when his guards were so low, and just a little too pretty and witty. This Duke, undefeated in battle, was soon vanquished by the bright eyes of the Widow Fothingham._

_It is not an uncommon folly, for a man of even so accomplished a middle age, to fall in love with a lady some twenty years his junior, but never had a man with such otherwise unimpeachable judgement been lead so astray by his own desires as to so misread a situation._

_This lady had no idea of her conquest, and thought so that the men about her would respect her grief. Poor lady! She was doomed before she had begun._

_Her hypocritical sister-in-law Lady Seeyle observed the Duke’s partiality and laughed about it. She had no feelings and thus respected none. The Earl laughed with her but was cleverer than his daughter-in-law. What she merely saw as fodder for a jest, he saw as a means of manipulation. He told Lady Seeyle it would be most amusing to have the Duke sit beside the widow every evening, and refused to let the widow stirr out of doors unless it was in the company of the Duke. Poor lady, she longed for nature, the nature of her simple girlhood in the purity and virtue of Kent, that garden of England; she obeyed this conditional so she might at least see the flowers she so loved. Thus did the Earl dangle his son’s widow before the Duke, as one dangles a carrot before a donkey._

_When Calantha kindly dropped a word of all this into the widow’s ear, the Widow Fothingham found it so absurd a supposition she laughed. To one whose heart was so innocent, the world could not be so dark. No man could be so cruel. But oh how she wished she had listened to Calantha not two months after this!_

_The Earl told the Duke that all the widow needed to return his affection was a show of gallantry: voting for the Earl’s bill to restructure the Army. The Duke eagerly obliged and then made his interest known to the widow. The widow was so shocked, she spoke not a word, until the Duke tried to take her in his arms._

_“I beg you pardon me,” the widow said, confused in the extreme. “I must to my father-in-law before I give you an answer; it is my duty to obey him while I live in his house.”_

_But her father-in-law, instead of defending her and agreeing she would never have to see the Duke again, flew into a rage that she had run from the room._

_“But I do not understand!” cried the lady. “Why do you require I accept the attentions of your friend, sir? I want no man but my husband— for he was my true match.”_

_“True match!” exclaimed my lord Morekey. “I was graciousness itself in declaring it so, but you cannot truly think I believed it.”_

_“Surely, sir,” said Mrs. Fothingham, “you must have come to think so after I followed your son through the hell of battle, as ladies did their knights of old, as Énide did her Érec? No motivation but that of purest love could have moved one such as I, happier in the flowering fields of England than in society, to risk so much to be at the side of my soulmate.”_

_“You are a simple creature,” said my lord, shaking his head and thrusting her aside with a powerful, annoyed gesture. “Now my son is dead, my power over you is absolute! If I tell you to marry the Duke, so you shall!”_

_“But sir,” cried the poor widow, half-fainting._

_The Earl would not be moved. “If I tell you to become the mistress of the Duke, so you shall!”_

_This to a widow, whose days were all in goodness spent, who left her house only to commune with nature and to visit widows even less fortunate than herself. The virtuous simplicity of her upbringing left her with no recourse against this aristocratic, autocratic demand. She begged, the Earl was intransigent— and so she remained a lure for the poor, lovesick Duke, who had never been injured by any projectile on any field of battle, but was wounded so mortally by cupid’s arrow. The Duke spent his time in the Earl's house and voted as the Earl requested, hoping to prove himself to his lady. The poor Duke thought he had merely frightened the lady, who was known to be delicate, with the force of his passion; to prove himself a gentleman through gallant action and continual good manners at home was the Duke’s object. The lady went into a decline, but obeyed the will of her father-in-law. She had no other recourse._

_Such a man was the Earl of Morekey. And knowing all she did of the unhappiness forced upon two innocent hearts who did not deserve it, Calantha was at first not displeased to know she would no longer be invited to Morekey House...._

Elizabeth was only a sentence into this when she paled and fell silent.

“Tired of reading, Mrs. Fitz?” Wellington asked.

She shut the book and forced a laugh. “A little, I confess. Sir Thomas, would you be so good as to ask your servant for some tea?”

She drank it in silence, and flipped through the pages, hoping that she would not appear again within them. Marjorie did— she and a woman obviously Lady Jersey complained of the tiresomeness of married couples in love with each other, as Lady Jersey was too ugly and Marjorie too cold to have ever inspired love in anyone, let alone their husbands— but that was it.

The tumult of Elizabeth's mind was very painful. She could not understand why Lady Caroline would set down such a story, so close to reality and yet so horribly misinterpreted— and they hardly knew each other! Elizabeth hadn't spoken to her since Lady Jersey’s charity bazaar. She tried in vain to tell herself that these two pages were meant to injure her father-in-law, rather than her and Wellington, but she felt the blow none-the-less. To be represented as the model of English female delicacy— allied to the more popular teachings of Rousseau, on the best mode of female education— was not so bad, Elizabeth told herself. An exasperating misinterpretation of her character, to be sure. But one to which she was accustomed. But to cast her very proper father-in-law in the light of a procurer and herself the role of near-ruined innocent! At least it appeared she was being forced into marriage rather than being made a mistress— but everyone would read this book, all her London and Hertfordshire and Paris acquaintances— would they believe Lady Caroline? Would they think so Gothic an interpretation of her circumstances would be true?

She could already see Darcy sweeping down from Derbyshire in a storm of moral condemnation. Elizabeth had a horrible vision of Darcy sicing Boatswain on a very annoyed Duke of Wellington.

Oh God— and Wellington! He would not be happy with this. He had so hated to be cast in the role of victim during the divorce— and to now have this private affairs so raked over like this! And so wrongly! Elizabeth did not know what his reaction would be. She did not think he would give her up, not over a slander manufactured by Lady Caroline Lamb— but he did not like appearing a fool. She re-read the passage and felt all the cruelty (unintentional, she reminded herself), of the accusation that she could not make Wellington happy— that he was doomed to repeat the same romantic mistakes, and forever pursue women with other soulmates—

— and oh God, to have it thought she was being dangled as a lure to him! How would Lord Matlock react to this? So shocking, so improper a suggestion, so baseless— and the general evil Lady Caroline had scrupled not to lay at her father-in-law’s door! Elizabeth had never really seen Lord Matlock angry; indeed, he reacted to even mild deviations from his expectations with such bafflement, such stubborn and immediate overcorrection! Elizabeth did not think Lord Matlock would be so unjust as to be angry with her for something someone so unconnected to her as Lady Caroline Lamb had said, but to a man so concerned with strict standards of morality— Elizabeth sunk into a miserable silence and was very glad the appointment lasted only ten minutes more.

“Out with it, my dear,” said Wellington, when Sir Thomas had politely walked them out of his studio. “What did Caro Lamb write that frightened _you_ into silence?”

“Not frightened,” protested Elizabeth. “Upset. She is utterly vicious to Lord Matlock and— and she wrote more about me.” Then, gathering her courage, “And you, sir. You have made an appearance. And I do not think you will like it.”

“She call me Irish?” he joked, dryly.

“A bit... worse than that.”

Wellington raised his eyebrows. “Can you bear to speak of it?” When it was clear she was struggling to do so, he held out his hand for the book.

Elizabeth did not wish to give it to him but thought it would be better if he knew what was being said before there was another spate of political cartoons. “I put my calling card before the relevant passage.”

She was on edge the ride back to Matlock House, and when they retired to her parlor, Elizabeth raised her eyes so frequently from her work to look anxiously at Wellington that she quite mangled the baby cap she was making for Mrs. Collins (Mrs. Collins had written at Easter with news of another pregnancy; and though Elizabeth rejoiced in her friend’s growing nursery, she had felt a pang of jealousy, one soon overwhelmed by the horrible mental image of Mr. Collins enjoying his conjugal rights. It was difficult to be jealous after _that_ ).

To her surprise, Wellington merely rolled his eyes when he shut the book. “Well! Now we see how Caro organizes the world. If she likes you, you are a victim; if she dislikes you, you are a tyrant worse than Boney. Whatever did your father-in-law do to her?”

“He was very loud in his condemnations of her behavior after the whole... party incident,” she said, gesturing at her wrist. “And I think he threw her out of a houseparty at Matlock; or at least, he banned her from ever returning after she brought along Lord Byron and there was some sort of terrible row, and for the last few years she is not been received or admitted at Matlock House. But really, you are not... angry?”

“My dear,” he said dryly, coming to sit beside her on the sofa, “I do not like being called a fool incapable of making good romantic choices, and one apparently so far gone as to mistake a woman’s terror of me for tenderer feelings, but I have had the entirety of this spring to get used to the notion that all Britain associates me less with my military victories than my romantic entanglements. I should much prefer to be featured in a scene where I rout some oddly named expy of Bonaparte’s, or to have been kept out of the text entirely, but I have quite the collection of satirical cartoons and pamphlets about my divorce now, and am grown inured to what the public has to say about it. I confess to some annoyance, but there's no point in getting myself in a tizzy over what Caro Lamb has written.” Then seeing Elizabeth was really very upset and unsettled, Wellington assumed his battlefield manner and turned from being annoyed, and dry in his expression of it, to the gentle teasing and blasé manner with which he usually set her at ease in private. “It seems to have got you in a quake. I can’t see why, she’s got you as a model of virtue, coated all with some half-remembered Rousseau.”

“I am not in a quake,” she protested, courage rising. “I was not even really intimidated, just— flustered, really. That is— I am well used to the appearance of St. Lizzy of the Muddy Petticoats, praise be, burn feathers to her in lieu of candles, in the hopes she will rise from the swoon she is perpetually in, but— I am upset that she calls you a lovesick fool or that I’m _frightened_ by you—”

“Are you frightened of anything? I recall your being at Hougoumont the evening of the 15th.”

“Not many things. Public censure, certainly.”

“A very reasonable fear, my dear, but even in this case, I do not think the world will look down upon you. What is the worst that she said? You have an overbearing father-in-law, who despite what she says, does not actually have total legal authority over you? I think that is not an uncommon problem; and the world is hardly likely to believe that the Earl of Matlock, who is at Church all Sunday, and who had an Archbishop for a father-in-law himself, would tell his daughter-in-law to go be mistress to a friend of his. And what was the other charge— that you caused an older man to fall foolishly in love with you without realizing you had done so? In certain circles that is viewed as a triumph. Is it it that you are from Kent instead of your most beloved Hertfordshire? I know _that_ is an atrocity for which she can never be forgiven.”

Elizabeth laughed despite herself. “Indeed, a capital offense. No, I am distressed about what she has said about— about us, Your Grace.”

“My dear, I highly doubt anyone will read a passage about you going into a decline at your father-in-law’s attempting to trade you to me for my vote and think, ‘Well, well! I bet half-a-crown Mrs. Fitzwilliam is actually the mistress of the Duke of Wellington!’ Or is it that you dislike her insinuating you were afraid of me?” He looked at her with some amusement. “I don’t think _I_ could ever frighten you.”

“ _You_ ? Never.” Wellington’s blasé attitude had done its usual work and restored her equanimity; she relaxed against his arm and smiled up at him. “I wish I could say I was frightened when I first met you, but I was far too excited to be at my first ball as a married woman, and far, _far_ too relieved to be off a ship at last! I am the world’s worst sailor. I suppose I was rather awed, but not frightened. Indeed, I could not understand why people found you so imposing when you were so charming and agreeable to me.”

“Most people are not as pretty as you,” Wellington replied, chucking her under the chin. “I forget what that purple flower is called, that’s everywhere in Lisbon.”

“Jacarandas?”

“Yes, that’s it. You had jacaranda blossoms in your hair. I wanted to ask for a sprig of it, but thought I might frighten you. Clearly I ought to have pressed my luck. Especially since I had forbidden dueling among my officers; I doubt your husband would have even thought to call me out for it.”

Elizabeth laughed. “You are an utter rascal!”

“There now. That’s the Mrs. Fitz I know. Quite indomitable.”

She felt rather more cheerful and admitted, “I did not perhaps _fear_ it, but I was apprehensive you would so hate appearing the lovesick fool you would break with me.”

Wellington was clearly astonished at her saying so.

Elizabeth blushed. “I realize now it was foolish but—”

“—foolish indeed to think I would break with you over something _Caro Lamb_ wrote in _Glenarvon_!” He tucked her against his shoulder, under his chin and said, “Sweet girl, it would take more than the likes of Caro Lamb calling me a fool to give you up. Men call me worse names me every single day— thank God most of them are in French, so I don’t know the true extent of it.”

Elizabeth confessed to his cravat, “I do admit to being upset that she thought I could not make you happy.”

“Patently false, my dear,” he said, almost fiercely. “You make me happier than anyone else with whom I’ve, ah... what was your euphemism? Kept company. Do I make you happy?”

“Very much indeed! I honestly did not think I could be this happy again.”

He kissed her. “Good. I am glad we are agreed on that point. And as I cannot stretch politeness so far as to listen with even the appearance of interest to Caro Lamb’s take on my private affairs, I say we think no more of her.” Wellington tried to regain some of his old manner, and looked down at her work. “By the by, my dear, what is it you are attempting to make?”

“A baby cap,” she replied, looking town at the mess of crumpled muslin and tangled thread. “I finally finished that christening gown and gave it to my aunt, but then my particular friend Mrs. Collins— her husband is my aunt, Lady Catherine’s parson— she had to go and announce _she_ is expecting. I knew better than to offer to make her a christening gown as well, but, er....” she studied the lump of muslin in her lap. It looked more like a ball a dog had been at than a baby bonnet.

“Do they run to necklessness in the Collins family?”

“Perhaps I am merely preparing for the Jacobins to take over Kent.”

“Have a little more faith in me, my dear! I think I am accomplished enough a commander to keep French revolutionaries from setting up a guillotine in your aunt Catherine’s shrubberies, and decapitating her parson’s baby.”

“Heavens! I can’t imagine what she’d say if she was ever forced to play hostess to French revolutionaries! ‘You will never cut off a head _really_ well unless you practice more!’” They chatted quite merrily, _Glenarvon_ not quite forgot, but momentarily put aside. The other members of the household could not do so quite as easily.

Lord Stornoway, in particular, had never been so shocked by something in his whole life. Indeed, he had thrown his copy of the book across the sitting room when he reached the passage proclaiming that “Lady Seeyle” was too cold to inspire love in anyone, let alone her husband. Marjorie was politely Not Amused by the book. Lord Matlock had bypassed Not Amused altogether and was seething with barely concealed rage. He did not open his lips once all during the soup course. Honoria and Miss Duncan had arrived that day in order to take Miss Duncan’s history painting to the Royal Academy, where it was being displayed, and the two of them— and Georgiana, who hadn't read _Glenarvon_ — were baffled by the company. Wellington was much as he always was in times of trouble: dry and epigrammatic. Elizabeth often matched his spirits, but she was embarrassed whenever she looked at her father-in-law, and blushed whenever she thought of Georgiana or Darcy or any of her other relatives reading the book.

Eventually Honoria grew tired of this and, putting down knife and fork said, “Is _anyone_ going to explain why you’re all in such a mood, or are we just going to be blindly walking around broken glass the rest of this visit?”

Matlock applied himself to his wine, but Stornoway burst out, “Bloody Caro Lamb! It’s the outside of enough!”

“Marjorie’s cousin?” Georgiana asked, turning to Elizabeth.

“Well, yes,” said Elizabeth. “Georgiana, you have heard she decided to write a novel about her... friendship... with Lord Byron?”

Wellington snorted at her euphemism.

“I... had heard something of that nature,” mumbled Georgiana, shrinking in on herself.

“Do you know what a _roman-à-clef_ is?”

“Yes— it’s a novel about real people, only they are given different names.”

“Ah... well....” Elizabeth hesitated.

“Caro was so good as to include all of us,” said Marjorie. “It was neither a skilled nor a flattering portrait. Some takes are worse than others. What she’s set down about your uncle Matlock and your cousin Lizzy are probably the worst, though I cannot be really thrilled with my own small part.”

“What has she set down?” Georgiana asked.

Elizabeth flushed scarlet. Lord Matlock attacked the goose he was carving with particular ferocity. Wellington looked heavenward and said, “A great deal of nonsense that any rational creature would immediately realize could not possibly be true. My lord, I know it is distressing to see yourself slandered so, but put it out of your mind.”

“Your Grace,” said Lord Matlock, fighting for the appearance of calm, “that is advice kindly meant, I am sure, but I cannot. I have lived my life in such a way as to avoid the censure of the world. I have brought up all my children to do the same. I have never been so unjustly or unjustifiably attacked— and for what? Because I would not countenance Lady Caroline Lamb inviting her lover to a house party in 1812, and asked her to leave when she persisted in doing so?”

Marjorie dabbed at her lips with her napkin. “That and not receiving her after she tried to cut off her soulmark and fling it in Lord Byron’s face at Lady Heathcote’s ball three seasons ago.”

“Dreadful,” said Honoria. “You might as well have shot her mother at point-blank range, my lord.” She could see, however, that her jest was ill-timed and that her father really was offended, and said, “Oh come off it, Pa, what on earth could she accuse you of? Being too moral?”

Elizabeth did not know where to look; she was embarrassed and uncomfortable, and though she had managed to put her unhappiness with _Glenarvon_ from her mind, it now came back in full force.

Stornoway, who had been tipsy when coming down to dinner and was now approaching blind drunk, said, “Of— of the greatest cock and bull story you ever heard Nora! It’s an outrage, outrage I tell you! And the things Caro Lamb says about _my Marjorie_ , who’s worth— worth ten, no _twenty_ of her.”

“Thank you dear,” said Marjorie in quelling tones. “We don’t need to get into it in front of—”

“No,” said Stornoway belligerently. “Nora ought to know. She says— she says Pa’s a hip... a— a hypo—”

“A hippo?” asked Honoria, amused. “I didn’t know Caro was going Aesop’s fables on this.”

“Hypocrite,” Stornoway managed, banging on the table hard enough to make his silverware jump. Marjorie impatiently banished the servants, since she could not get her husband to stop talking. Stornoway continued on, “Pa, our Pa, a hypocrite! And that he— he doesn’t like any of his daughters, which ain’t in the least true and only likes his daughters-in-law because they made me look less stupid and poor Richard less scandalous and it’s all sheer bloody nonsense! And it don’t even make sense, for if that _was_ true, then when would our Pa go on and create an even greater scandal, offering poor Lizzy to His Grace like a— a— like a dish of potatoes or something?”

Elizabeth dropped her own silverware, splattering sauce all over herself; Wellington turned to her and handed over his napkin with a testy, “My lord Stornoway, was that really necessary?”

“None of it was!” cried Stornoway, misunderstanding Wellington.

Elizabeth could not look anyone in the eye; the sudden cacophony of voices, the gasps from Georgiana and the overlapping conversations from the rest of the party were painful to her. She was glad she had spilt something on herself; it gave her something to do rather than engage in the conversation.

Honoria, who spent a great deal of her time either shouting at hunting hounds or shouting at people who did not agree with her on the rights of same-sex-soulmates, boomed out over everyone, “What the hell?”

“— Marjorie a false friend and _lying_ that I didn’t love my wife! Utter nonsense! We’re a true match, ask bloody anyone!” Stornoway drunkenly concluded, into the silence that followed.

“But— but what’s this about Lizzy?” asked Georgiana, tentatively.

Elizabeth scrubbed furiously at a splotch of bearnaise sauce on the bodice of her lilac silk dinner gown, feeling more flustered than she had in years. “Oh, it— it—”

“It is not appropriate to summarize,” said Lord Matlock.

“Stornoway’s given it away anyhow,” said Honoria. “And all London will be talking of this, I’m sure— what’s the harm in letting Georgiana know? It’s faulty reasoning to think keeping her in ignorance will keep her safe from everyone being snide at her for what’s being said about her uncle and cousins.”

“Cousin Darcy will not like this,” said Marjorie, with a sigh.

“Cousin Darcy doesn’t like a lot of things,” replied Honoria. “He can bear the strain of adding something else to his long list. I'll just send a servant for a copy of the book if you won't tell me, and either give it to Georgiana when I’m done, or read it out loud to her.”

Lord Matlock left the carving knife in the goose and collapsed back into his chair, defeated, and massaged his forehead. “Nora, you sound just like your mother when she had the bit between her teeth.”

“And Mama always said I took after you,” Honoria said, with a grin. “Come now Pa, how bad is it? Georgie won't faint into the turbot will she?”

“I doubt it, but still, she will be very upset by it.”

“She is at table and shouldn't be talked over,” pointed out Miss Duncan, quietly.

Marjorie turned to Georgiana and said, “Very well. Georgiana, it seems you will hear of it some way or another— I shall attempt a euphemism. If that distresses you too much, we’ll shelve the discussion.” She waited for Georgiana’s timid nod before saying, “In her efforts to paint Lord Matlock as some sort of Machiavellian schemer and oppressor of all, Caro has accused him of using any ends necessary to get his bills passed. This includes using Lizzy to get the Duke of Wellington to vote for the RAMC bill.”

“Because clearly,” said Wellington dryly, “as Field Marshal of England and head of the Anglo-Allied Army, I have no interest or investment in seeing more of my officers and soldiers live after being wounded. Nor, as the person who appointed McGrigor Surgeon-General in Spain and established the marching hospitals during the Peninsular War, despite all the wishes of the copyboys of Whitehall, have I any desire to see that system made permanent.”

Elizabeth at last got up the courage to look about the table. Matlock and Stornoway were fuming; Marjorie looking sour as she touched her wineglass to her lips; Miss Duncan frowning; Honoria raising her eyebrows, Georgiana perplexed; Wellington annoyed and trying not to show it.

“Using Lizzy to persuade him?” Georgiana asked. “By that's— I do not see why that is so very bad. They are friends. Why should it be odd to ask someone to talk to a friend—”

“ _Use_ Lizzy like— like a carrot with a donkey was Lady Caroline’s phrase,” said Stornoway, attempting to tap the table with his forefinger for emphasis, but sticking it into the middle of a dish of potato purée instead.

“I suppose,” said Honoria, “that she was trying to make a statement on how the legal dependency of women on men makes us little more than objects of exchange between them, but... what an odd case to try it on.”

“I think you are putting more thought into this scenario than Caro ever did,” said Marjorie. “She just wanted to accuse Lord Matlock of all possible villainy.”

Georgiana said, “Oh!” and blushed.

“So, as you see, nonsense,” said Wellington, calmly and quellingly. “That being the case, let’s have done with it, it's distressing Mrs. Fitzwilliam unnecessarily.”

Lord Matlock said, “Yes, nonsense, but nonsense everyone will read! Mrs. Fitzwilliam has grounds to be distressed. We all do.”

“I can't imagine it's nonsense everyone will _believe_ ,” said Honoria. “For God’s sake Pa, I can't imagine anyone less likely to take up a side career as a procurer as you. I really can't see you going straight from church to Covent Garden, in the guise of an abbess.”

“Lady Honoria Fitzwilliam,” said Matlock, sharply, “mind your language!”

She leaned back in her chair. “Shan't. You're all so worked up over something no one will believe.”

“ _You_ haven't been accused of having never loved your wife!” Stornoway burst out. He had not many good qualities, but he did pride himself on his utter devotion to Marjorie. “Even if it is absurd it's still an intolerable thing to have said about oneself!”

“And I imagine what's said about everyone else in society is worse,” continued on Honoria.

“True,” said Marjorie. “What she writes about Lady Jersey, in what seems to me retaliation for not being asked to take part in a charity bazaar, is unfoundedly vicious, and I daresay Lady Melbourne comes out the worst of all... save for Lord Byron. But there seems to me enough truth in how she writes about Lord Byron to make people wonder how much truth is in all the rest.”

“But if everyone you care about is also in the book and knows they are being lied about—”

The quarrel continued all evening and the rest of the day. No one was shaken out of their opinions or had any significant change of feelings; the only thing that had been settled upon was the desire to remove the knocker from the door and refuse all visitors. The day after they could not avoid going out; it was the opening of the Royal Academy’s salon and Miss Duncan's painting in protest of the Elgin marbles had been accepted:

“I wouldn't hold it amiss if none of ye went,” said Miss Duncan. “I know Nora put up a fuss about everyone going all together but that was before....”

Marjorie regally held out her arms; the footman helped her put on a modish redingote in celestial blue, with a ruff-like collar. “Nonsense. We hid away one day. We hide a second and all the world will think we have something _to_ hide.” Then, waving away the footman so that she could do up the ties under her bust herself, murmured, “And the men have been brought to be more rational.”

“Pa’s had a day for his temper to cool and Julian a day to sober up,” translated Honoria, who had finishing doing up the frogs on her brown pelisse. It was cut to look like a man’s greatcoat, with multiple capes at the shoulder instead of puffed sleeves. She went to kiss Miss Duncan on the cheek. “You look a picture, Dora. Everyone will be looking at you instead of the painting!”

“Just what I've always wanted,” Miss Duncan said, though a smile lurked at the corner of her mouth. Honoria lost no time in kissing it out of her and Miss Duncan said, “We’ll scandalize your father like this.”

“Pa’s too scandalized by _Glenarvon_ to be scandalized by anything else.” Honoria lovingly tugged straight the plaid draped beautifully over Miss Duncan’s mossy green pelisse. “Let's get your tam on and get into the carriage, shall we?”

Georgiana had been too embarrassed to go out and unconvincingly lied about having a headache that morning. No one was inclined to press her on it; she had been blushing and embarrassed all yesterday and had thrown five or six different attempts at letters to her brother into the fire. Elizabeth had attempted to talk with her the evening previous but they had both blushed too much and been too uncomfortable to do much more than agree that Lady Caroline ought not to have written such things, especially as they had only the most tenuous basis in reality, and that Lord Matlock had never in his life managed to force Elizabeth to do anything she disliked. Georgiana had not been able to look Elizabeth in the eye when asking, “And— and all she was writing about the Duke of Wellington plaguing you with his attentions—”

“There isn't a shred of truth in that,” Elizabeth had exclaimed, indignant and flushed. “His Grace is one of my dearest friends, and I flatter myself I am one of his— and really, he is a flirt, but he is a gentleman. He would not force his attentions on anyone unwilling; nor is he so much a fool as to fail to realize when a woman is uninterested. I keep company with him because it gives me pleasure to do so, not because it brings pleasure to anyone else. That is, I do hope Lord Wellington enjoys my company as I do his but I do not ride with him because it is the will of my father-in-law.”

When they arrived at the salon, and were waiting for Stornoway and Matlock, who were coming in the curricle, Marjorie drew Elizabeth’s arm through hers and whispered into her ear, “I hope Wellington can spare you this afternoon, Lizzy; I think you shall be getting a lot of impertinent questions, and your blushing might be misinterpreted, especially if you are on his arm.”

“He might not have time to come,” Elizabeth said, trying to fight off a blush. “He did say he would try to look in but he and the Jacksons are dealing with all the furniture at Apsley House today.”

“Does he mean to shut the place up then?”

“Yes, but to use it when he comes back from France to sit in the Lords or to talk with the Prince Regent or Castlereagh.” Elizabeth felt a pang. She would very much miss having Wellington so conveniently near at night. “The children and their tutor go back with him to France.”

“And when does he go back to France?”

“Next Wednesday,” said Elizabeth, with a sigh. She was not sure when she would see Wellington again after that, and letters were a delight, yes, but also an awful torment. There was the very person one desired, in their own words, set down in their own hand, but without the thousand comforts and joys of physical presence. It was like smelling a feast without being able to sit down to eat.

“Hm,” said Marjorie, looking down at her. “Well, here is Stornoway. Prepare for battle, sister dear.”

It was not as bad as Elizabeth had been anticipating; indeed, Honoria had the right of it. The general attitude towards _Glenarvon_ was one of profound irritation. Everyone who had found themselves within its pages hated how they had been set down, and everyone who had not been included were angry they hadn't. There were a few snide questions about Wellington’s absence, but mostly their friends, fellow Whigs, and various relatives through the Spencers came up them. They offered sarcastic congratulations that Elizabeth had escaped her prison, faked astonishment that Marjorie had been enlisted in light of a new prison warden, or inquired if Elizabeth had gone into her prophesied decline yet, when not complaining how they themselves were portrayed.

“I really don't know what Caro Lamb means by attacking your father-in-law via the Duke of Wellington,” said Mary Crawford. “I thought the Lambs were all Whigs.”

“They are,” said Marjorie. “Her husband William is MP for Peterborough; he helped to sponsor the RAMC bill in the house.”

“Then I don't understand. Hasn't it always been your goal to get Wellington to the Whigs yourself? I should think such a one as Lady Melbourne would do what she could to encourage your success.”

“Such a one as Lady Melbourne, yes. Such a one as cousin Caro, no.” Marjorie tilted her head at a modern painting that Elizabeth had spent the past two minutes trying to understand. “What is this one supposed to be?”

“A ship in fog, as best as I can make it out,” said Elizabeth. “I cannot really tell; it's that artist Cousin Darcy so likes— Turner? I confess that I do not understand modern art. I like to understand just what I am looking at on first glance.”

“How sadly Neoclassical of you,” said Mary. “Oh! I have yet to see your more literal entree into the classical world. Where is Miss Duncan’s painting?”

They made their way to the painting, ‘Athena Looks Upon Her Temple,’ which featured Elizabeth, robed as Athena, in the shed housing the Elgin marbles. Elizabeth-as-Athena looked purposefully out of place, her expression wry as she gazed upon the headless statues crammed in about her. It was a very good likeness of Elizabeth; she was well pleased with it.

“Mrs. Fitz,” said Mary, as the three of them stood a little apart from the crowd, “I know Caro... saw the complete opposite of the actual situation—”

“Careful, Mary,” murmured Marjorie.

“—but how on earth did Wellington react? I can well imagine Lord Matlock’s outrage.”

“His Grace rolled his eyes and told me to put the book out of mind. He doesn't like being called a fool, but the reality is such that— that—”

“That such accusations are the exact opposite of reality and therefore strike him as nonsense?”

Elizabeth blushed.

Mary Crawford smirked. “I do sometimes wonder what Matlock would say if he ever knew what was actually going on under his roof.”

“Wonder all you like, but he never will,” Marjorie said icily, and changed the subject to the painting.

“I see we have been visited by the goddess herself,” came Wellington’s voice, not long after this. Elizabeth turned, pleased and somehow excited to see him, even though she had seen him at breakfast. He was as beautifully dressed as ever and smiling at her the way that never failed to make her smile in response.  

“Miss Duncan has set down Lizzy very exactly,” opined Marjorie. “The expression is so like! It's the same one she sometimes has around Lady Catherine.”

Elizabeth laughed at this picture of herself.

Wellington said, “Lady Stornoway, I have a request to make of you. My sons were in a fuss over all the disorder at home and I was obliged to offer them a reward if they would behave themselves. I have secured a box at Astley’s amphitheater for this evening. Would your children have any interest in seeing equestrian displays?”

“The only thing they would like better would be cake for every meal. Yes, thank you— Miss Fairfax has the evening off, but Lizzy and I can manage Julia and Laurie.” Honoria and Miss Duncan came over with Stornoway and Matlock; the first two declined the offer to attend (Miss Duncan was already looking drained and tired), and the latter two accepted.

Matlock was a little uncertain, for he had not liked how many people had stared at him already that day, but Marjorie went over to him and spoke in a low voice of not appearing to hide away.

Wellington of course came up to Elizabeth’s side and looked at the painting again. ‘ _I_ _acet ingens litore truncus, / avulsumque umeris caput et sine nomine corpus,_ ’ a quote from _The Aeneid_ meaning, ‘The mighty trunk lies on the shore/ and the head torn from the body without a name,’ had been engraved on a gold plate, screwed into the bottom part of the frame. “Fitting. Who suggested that?”

“I did. I had something of a mania for the ancient epics as an adolescent.”

“That is exactly what I would have thought of you,” said Wellington, smiling. “Though I am surprised you liked the _Aeneid_. Aeneas and Dido were both mourning the loss of their own first spouses when their grand love affair began. With your and your family's view on soulmarks, one would assume Homer to be your poet of choice. Odysseus struggling for twenty years to be back by the side of his soulmate Penelope, while she cleverly holds off whole armies of suitors, faithful to her One True Match--"

"Do you know, the French and the Spanish do not translate it as a one true match? I was quite shocked when I discovered it." Elizabeth laughed. "Your Grace, I suspect you trying to tease me about that awful christening gown again! And if you are not, your theory is all a wash, for it was Achilles and his soulmate Patroclus that held my particular attention."

Wellington smiled at her. "You seem more yourself, my dear."

"I suppose so! I do so enjoy oversetting people's conceived notions of me." At his look of slightly exasperated fondness, she said, "Oh yes, I understand your meaning." She had been fretful the two previous evenings and needed rather more petting and reassurance that she usually did, and it cheered her to see his solicitude continuing on during the day. “Going out was not as bad as I feared. It is good of Your Grace to come here— you are sure you are not too tired?”

“My dear, the thought of coming to see you once we were done was the only thing sustaining me. I have been impatient to see the painting of you ever since I saw you sitting for it.”

“How do you like it?”

“Extremely. I would purchase it if Miss Duncan consented to sell it.”

Elizabeth blushed. If they had been alone, Wellington would have chucked her under the chin, but as it was, there was a sudden murmur of voices and they turned to see Lady Caroline Lamb approaching. Elizabeth looked to Marjorie.

Stornoway, however, surprised them all. He seized Marjorie by the hand and dipped her into a dramatic kiss that would have been excessive on a Drury Lane stage. Marjorie was too startled to protest at this impropriety, and was still gaping at him when he released her.

Lord Stornoway made eye contact with Lady Caroline and, deliberately looking away, said, “My dear, beloved Marjorie, it is rather tiresome, is it not, for unhappily married women to see a devotion that has not lost its strength in thirteen years?”

“Surely you have only been married twelve,” said Lady Jersey, who was nearby.

“I fell quite hopelessly in love with Marjorie the first time I danced with her at Almack’s,” declared Lord Stornoway. “I knew that evening we were a true match and I would never love anyone more in this life than I would Lady Marjorie Spencer. The happiest day of my life was when she agreed to add Fitzwilliam at the end of her name.”

“He's trying so hard,” Honoria whispered to Elizabeth. “But it's like seeing a dog try to walk on its hind legs—”

Stornoway turned now to Honoria and said, loudly and deliberately, “Sister, would you not agree that our father, a moral, truly good man, whose public actions reflect _all_ his private character, has really gone above and beyond in making sure every single one of his children were able to marry their true matches?” At Honoria’s look of ‘Julian you idiot, what are you doing?’ Stornoway recklessly declared, “Indeed, he is now looking into sponsoring a bill extending marriage rights to same-sex soulmates!”

Matlock said, exasperated, “My lord Stornoway, you recall I told that to you and your wife _in confidence_?”

“Pa,” said Honoria, in a choked voice.

Stornoway was not yet done; only two-thirds of his party were gaping at him. He said to Wellington, “Your Grace, I know you are a Tory— but would you not agree that even his political enemies would call my father a good man who would never behave dishonorably?” Wellington agreed to this and then Stornoway parroted Wellington’s line about how a Field Marshal of England, who established the system of marching hospitals used in the Peninsular War, might have a vested interest in seeing that made permanent. Going to Lord Matlock for help in what was assuredly a bipartisan effort that affected men of every class and party all over England was only good tactics. Elizabeth began to fear she was about to be brought up; and indeed she was. Stornoway concluded with a furious, “And my dear sister-in-law, we all knew you were my brother’s soulmate when we first met you. His death grieved you so much you remained in deep mourning until only a month or two ago and therefore did not... go out and things.”

“Because I was in full mourning, yes,” Elizabeth agreed quickly, less Stornoway declare to all the world that she was not in the least Wellington’s mistress, which she felt would bring up more problems than it would solve. “I did not go out at all, really— not until His Grace was kind enough to notice the adverse effect this had on my health and spirits. I admit to a perhaps unbecoming strain of willfulness; there was a period of time when I was still very much affected by my husband's death, and would not stir out of doors unless His Grace cajoled me into it. His Grace was the first person to call upon me after— after—” Why was it still so hard to talk of her husband's death? “—my husband passed. I was a very pitiful object then and have been very grateful for Lord Wellington’s friendship ever since.”

“Indeed,” said Stornoway, still incensed, “my father made the Duke of Wellington’s acquaintance through my sister-in-law, not the other way around.” He gave up the attempt at speaking to the air and stared straight at Lady Caroline. “I shan't even go into the black-hearted villainy you've accused us of on _that front_ , it's too baseless and tawdry an accusation to dignify.”

As per usual with Elizabeth, now the moment of danger was past, her knees trembled; Wellington was obliged to quietly take her by the elbow to keep her upright. He looked down at her with concern.

Lady Caroline Lamb was rigid with displeasure and said, “My Lord Stornoway, if you think—”

“I do, despite what you have set down,” said Stornoway indignantly. “And _I_ think that you would have done better not to pick up your pen at all, if you were only going to use it to lie about people who have just gone through the absolute hell of losing a most beloved brother— and son and husband— and accuse them of all sorts of evil in reaction to the worst time of their lives.”

With that Stornoway turned on his heel and left. Marjorie immediately rushed after him. Honoria quite impulsively and improperly threw her arms about her father's shoulders. Matlock was embarrassed by the embrace, but murmured something into Honoria’s velvet tam, and they followed the Stornoways.

Lady Caroline turned to Wellington, who was very much Not Amused and trying to lead Elizabeth away. “Your Grace,” she tried, “the Fitzwilliams have misunderstood, all I was trying to do—”

“Lady Caroline,” said Wellington, a little testily, “in this war of yours against Lord Byron, you seem to have forgotten a basic principle of war: one does not willfully slaughter the innocent in pursuit of the enemy.”

The blood drained visibly from Lady Caroline’s face. “They are hardly innocent. The things they have said to me, have done against me—”

Wellington said, dryly, “Don't make yourself into a sacrificial lamb, my dear; it is a role that suits you as badly as a procurer does Lord Matlock.”

Lady Caroline turned on her heel and ran off. There was a moment of stunned silence before everyone began to talk at once.

Elizabeth looked up at him astonishment. Such a set down was entirely unexpected. Wellington squeezed her elbow in reassurance and offered his free arm to Miss Duncan, who had made herself small by her painting in the hopes of avoiding notice. “Ladies. I sense the necessity of a tactical retreat.”

“Thank ye,” said Miss Duncan. “I have a great inclination to imitate Miss Darcy and lock myself into my room with a sick headache.”

Elizabeth had to admit the cowardly wish she had done the same when they went out that evening. She spent the first half of the evening well entertained, little Lord Charles having shyly crawled into her lap when he couldn't see over the railing well enough (though, more honestly, because he was unsettled and wanted affection, and because Laurie had crawled into Marjorie’s lap and Charles did not wish to be behindhand). Charles responded well to her teasing and jokes, and his delight in the spectacle only increased her own. (The warm glances Wellington cast on the two of them rather helped as well.) Being thus occupied with the children the constant stream of visitors did not distract her. But at the interval, Lord Stornoway took all the children to go procure refreshments and she was at the mercy of the masses.

The Earl of Matlock was extremely put out, and was moved enough to exclaim, after the box had emptied and Wellington made clear further visitors were not welcome, “This is in every way intolerable!”

“Lord Stornoway’s... display somewhat backfired, in terms of keeping your family out of the limelight,” said Wellington, a little dryly. “And I am afraid my set-down, while effective in depressing Caro Lamb’s pretensions have merely encouraged them in everyone else.”

“Your reaction was hardly the worst, Your Grace,” said Marjorie. “Dear Silence—” this being the ironic nickname of Lady Jersey, who never stopped talking “— was so upset by the way she was portrayed that she told me just now that she is going to revoke Caro’s voucher for Almack’s.”

Though this revenge spelled absolute social ruin, it did not appease His Lordship.

“My lord, I do not understand why you are still so upset,” said Marjorie. “Much worse things were said about people other than yourself.”

Lord Matlock blustered a great deal and Elizabeth soon realized that he had been deeply hurt at the insinuation that he did not love his children or their spouses. There was no doubt, an unacknowledged stirring of guilt that attended this, for he had not truly loved his second son until that son had been killed, and his treatment of Honoria was scarcely better.

Wellington leaned back in his seat and said, “My lord, I think I see a way to resolve all our present difficulties. My children are unsettled over the idea of going with me to France; you are not desirous of remaining in England; why do not you and your family come to France and stay with me for the summer? My sons would be very glad of their friends, your grandchildren, and it would be a very great pleasure to repay your kindness in hosting me all this Season.”

Elizabeth turned hopefully to look at her father-in-law. The thought of being with Wellington all summer made her feel almost giddy, and the thought of seeing all her military friends again was enough to really make her so.

Marjorie caught Elizabeth's eye, smiled, and then turned to Matlock. “Oh yes, sir! Just think— same sex marriage is legal in France. We may call this a research trip. With the Duke of Wellington as your host, all doors will be open to you— I daresay you will be able to get as exact a picture of how this was accomplished in France as possible. It will be very easy to craft your bill and explain how it will become law. Especially since Honoria has already written so much on the subject over the years.”

“I am willing to stretch a point and declare this trip was arranged during my last visit,” said Wellington.

Matlock looked relieved and then looked annoyed at his relief. “Your Grace is very kind. Though it will probably take me until the beginning of June to wrap up all my affairs in London.”

“Good! I shall have some time to prepare for your arrival. I am very glad you will come, my lord.” The children returned and were informed of these arrangements. Lord Duroro tried to pretend he was indifferent, but it was clear he was pleased in how he pompously and properly offered out refreshments to the assembled company. The news that the Stornoways would take Spencer early out of Eton sent his two siblings into whoops of joy, and a very little reassurance, on Marjorie’s part, that Spencer would be happy to talk about Eton and how he liked it,  relieved Lord Duoro, who had acquired a not unnatural anxiety about Eton, considering that whether or not he would attend the school had begun the argument that led to his parents’ divorce.

Little Lord Charles showed his happiness more obviously and Elizabeth herself was all smiles. She was inattentive to even the best stunt riding, for Wellington leaned towards her while the children were all crammed together, standing at the rail of the box, and whispered, “Pleased, my dear?"

"Very much so. Though really, that set-down you gave Lady Caroline would have been sufficient to earn my admiration this evening. I did not expect you to say anything. And it was really quite an ingenious solution, inviting Lord Matlock to France. It's as definitive a set-down as your sacrificial lamb joke."

"I did think myself clever, but for acting in my own interests, rather than my sons'."   
  
Elizabeth turned to look at him and blushed. She was pleased and flattered, and happier than she ever thought she could be given her loss in general and the events of the past few days in particular. “Poor man, was there some truth to _Glenarvon_ after all? Have you been vanquished by my bright eyes?”

His smile was soft and fond when he said, “The mark of a good general is knowing when to surrender.”


	9. In which Lady Stornoway gives some advice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There seem to be an absurd number of variations on the waltz in the Regency period, so I stuck with this particular one: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MB--uboHc9I
> 
> Thanks again to eleith for the amazing beta work!

The butler announced the Countess Lieven as Elizabeth failed to write a letter to Jane, and Marjorie arranged flowers for the week (a task she had attempted to pass onto Elizabeth, but ended up immediately taking back, as Elizabeth’s idea of a good arrangement were not the grand concoctions of hothouse flowers Marjorie adored, but a handful of pinks in a Wedgewood vase).

“I had wondered when the Countess would come visit,” said Marjorie, wiping her hands on her apron. “Show her in and bring up some tea, please.”

The Countess swept in like a military parade of one, and took the best place by the fire. She regarded Elizabeth and Marjorie with an expression of lofty amusement. “My word, you Fitzwilliams keep busy schedules. No sooner do I hear that Lady Honoria’s partner has exhibited a painting at the Royal Academy than I am also told that Lord Matlock means to sponsor a bill for same-sex partnerships and you are all removing to France for the summer with Lord Wellington.”

“Yes— inconvenient for the news to come out now, though,” said Marjorie. “Or rather for _Glenarvon_ to come out when it did. His Grace the Duke of Wellington very kindly invited us to France in April, when Matlock began floating the idea of looking into same-sex marriage. It’s been the work of literally a month to get my father-in-law to consider accepting the invitation and now no one sees it for the triumph it is. In the words of my aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, I am most put-out!”

“I had no notion Wellington was in favor of same sex marriage,” said the Duchess, turning to Elizabeth.

“It is not something he feels passionately about, but he’s not against it,” said Elizabeth. Then hesitating, “I do not know how much you have picked up about our customs in terms of the... selection of professions for sons of the aristocracy and the gentry, but... that is— that is not to say it is always the case, for some men enter the army because they like it or their parents think it a fitting profession or they have personal reasons to take up arms— but it is often the case that when a soulmark comes in that is not... entirely acceptable, the son is placed in the army or the navy. The navy takes the really hopeless cases, or the poorer ones, for one does not need to buy a commission. The army tends to take in the cases that are more ambiguous. It is why midshipmen and ensigns start at sixteen.”

“I always heard His Grace was put into the army because his mother the Countess thought him too useless for anything but cannon fodder.”

“As I said, Your ladyship, is it not _always_ the case. But it is common enough that Lord Wellington instituted a policy in the Peninsula that every soldier of any rank might request their commanding officer to alert ‘a particular friend,’ in case of capture, injury, or fatality, no questions asked. He told me it would make it a da— dratted sight easier when Lady So-and-so asks why the squire’s son next door knew Captain So-and-so had been killed at the same time as she did. One cannot mistake the connection then, or blame Lord Wellington or his officers for any error in the fulfillment of their duties.”

“How typically Wellington,” said the Countess. “Such sentimentality masquerading as pragmatism.” She eyed Elizabeth. “Though it seems to me an invitation made more as a favor to Lord Matlock, than as commitment to the development of such a bill. I would never have thought someone as Tory as Wellington would be so firm an ally to a Whig like Matlock.”

“I think the events of this part January and February have proven to Lord Wellington just how useful it is to have the Fitzwilliams as allies,” said Marjorie. “His time fighting Napoleon abroad has, I think, accustomed him to working with those with different views of the world.”

The countess was still looking at Elizabeth, with some amusement. “I suppose his personal feelings do not come into it at all?”

Elizabeth did not know how to answer this and looked to Marjorie for help.

Marjorie said, lightly, “Countess Lieven, do not tell me you give credence to anything Caro Lamb thinks correct? After all, she thinks my husband does not love me and he very dramatically gave the lie to _that_.” It was said very fondly, and after the Countess had left, Elizabeth admitted that she thought Marjorie would be annoyed with her husband’s exhibition.

“Well, I suppose I ought to be,” Marjorie acknowledged, “but you know, I didn’t put him up to it.”

“I am well aware of _that_.”

“No, no, I really mean it,” said Marjorie, coloring a little. “Never even planted the idea— I was just— I was so terribly annoyed about _Glenarvon_ and all the stops it might put to my plans— plans which have been the patient work of many months— I didn’t speak about the novel to Julian at all. When he tried to bring it up when we were alone, I claimed to have the headache and need absolute quiet.” She got up and went to the flowers, though she merely toyed with them instead of arranging them. “I really thought I could not be surprised by Stornoway. I thought all the contents of his mind to be what I had put there. It does put a different complexion on things.”

Elizabeth smiled archly. “How so? Are you disappointed you did not manage to perfectly arrange things, as per usual?”

Marjorie laughed. “You give me too much credit. My plans seldom work out without some alteration, and they are never perfect in execution or in achievement. That is why I rarely speak of my tactics aloud. No one knows how many mistakes and setbacks attend my successes. But it— I honestly thought Julian let me arrange his life for him because he was only just smart enough to know what a muddle he’d make of it on his own. But he is capable of independent thought and action, something I had somewhat doubted these ten years and more. It was only yesterday I realized he gives over everything to me, not out of self-preservation, but as proof of his devotion.”

Elizabeth teased, “Marjorie, I cannot believe it. I think you may be sweet on your own husband.”

“I know, terribly unfashionable,” she said, with a laugh. “Well! It may not have been as perfect a match as yours, but it is very nice to be so worshiped, and even better to be given such free reign. What freedom we poor women have depends entirely on our husbands.”

“Not the best system,” said Elizabeth. “There are not many men who respect a woman’s independence.”

“Sadly true, dear sister,” said Marjorie. She picked up her scissors and returned to her work. “I hope you are not speaking out of personal disappointment.”

“Hm? Oh no. Wellington has been as good as Richard always was. I have my liberty to do my liking, and I think it amuses and pleases him to see me acting upon it.” Elizabeth refrained from mentioning that Wellington had often mentioned how irritated he was that his first wife never seemed to have an independent life outside of him… just as Elizabeth had refrained from telling Wellington that he was as much to blame for that state of affairs as Kitty.

Marjorie opined, “I think it’s only weak men, uncertain of their own power or status, that really insist on women being all nerves and nonsense, not rational creatures capable of directing their own lives and making their own choices. I am not surprised. Indeed, I am only surprised that I have not heard Wellington’s name linked with any other lady but yourself. I cannot recall hearing of Wellington’s fidelity to _any_ woman before you.”

Elizabeth felt she ought not to be, but was a little surprised by this. She had hoped Wellington would not take up with anyone else while she was his mistress, but had not thought too much or too long on this, for fear of finding it to be otherwise. “Are you quite sure?”

“I cannot be quite sure without going to France myself, but if you wish me to make a few discreet inquiries, I certainly can.” Marjorie paused. “Did you ask him for fidelity?”

“Yes, but I did not— I had not—”

Marjorie put down the lilies she was trimming. “You did not think he would be.”

Elizabeth blushed. “No, he is a man of his word, it is only— oh I feel terrible for admitting to such an unworthy thought, but as it was a condition I imposed on him, as a price for continuing our... intimacy. It was not something he wanted, or would ever have suggested. And I am trying very much to apply what Lady Melbourne told me, but it is all still new to me, and it does not come naturally, and I could not brush it off, or be easy if he was keeping company with anyone else."

Marjorie looked at her consideringly. “No— I think you’re someone who needs to be married, Lizzy. Or, well, not _needs_ to be but prefers to be. Lady Melbourne is someone who does not need to be married. My brother Lawrence is another.”

“Are you one or the other?”

“I need to be married,” said Marjorie, in a moment of quite surprising honesty, “but not because I need the... security or happiness or the emotional support of a partner. It’s because I need the position. There are very few things single women are respectably allowed to handle on their own. I am glad I married Julian and do appreciate him a great deal for that, for letting me take on the work I have always wanted to do. I do not think there are many men that would.”

“Do you think yourself a match, now?”

“I don’t think it’s a worthwhile question to ask myself,” Marjorie said, frowning in concentration at the lilies before her. “I don’t particularly like the idea of soulmates, to be quite honest. I shock you, I know, but I don’t like the idea of some people having to be unhappy forever because they were born in the wrong century or something of the kind. And that is such pressure on one person, to be everything to you— that is such an impossible burden. It bothers me, the concept of there being The One and that’s it, and no other relationship you have with anyone is as important. For I am a reasonably happy woman who does love her husband, in her own fashion, but who also loves her children, her siblings, her family, and most of all her friends— not in the same way I love my husband but even then, it’s...” she made a frustrated noise. “I’m nattering on. I can hardly tell what I mean. Just that Julian is not the whole of my emotional life. There wasn’t a choir of angels bursting into song or light flooding the room or anything when I chose Julian. To use your terms, the price of taking him on was the one I found least onerous.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, I threw over a very nice Captain Stornoway in the Blues for Julian. I could have made something of the captain, I daresay, but I wasn’t willing to put in the work. Yes... I think that’s what bothers me. One always has to choose to put in the work into any kind of relationship. And this soulmate idea, that it’s all effortless and immediate and putting any work into it, or making it work with anyone else makes it lesser... I don’t like it. It’s not in the least how I’ve experienced the world.” She looked at Elizabeth thoughtfully and said, “I suppose you have a different view of it since your own experiences match up to what was actually supposed to happen.”

“I shouldn’t say there was no work,” said Elizabeth. “Adjusting to following the drum was not without its difficulties, but I... I suppose what made the work feel easy was that Richard never asked me to be anything other than I was. He just asked who I was and was pleased with who that turned out to be. And I felt very much the same about him.” After a moment she said, “I do still think of him as my soulmate, for whatever that’s worth, but I am inclined towards Voltaire in my assessment of it. It was a happy marriage because we put the work into understanding each other, and, in understanding each other, chose to be together."

Marjorie said, “This may be too soon to ask, but would you consider marrying again? That is, if you formed an attachment based on mutual understanding and conscious and careful choice? The church does recognize the right of people to marry a second time, for companionship or children.”

Elizabeth probed at the idea carefully, tenderly, as if prodding at a sore tooth. “I... I don’t know. There aren’t really second marriages in the family, are there?”

“Not in Matlock’s generation, but the one before, yes, and certainly among connections to the family. And for you particularly, my dear, I can convince Matlock to be lenient. He’s always been atwitter that you never had children and would be unfulfilled forever if you never had them.”

Elizabeth looked heavenward. “Because no woman can _really_ be fulfilled without being a mother.”

“In his opinion, yes. It’s total nonsense of course, but he believes in it like superstitious people believe their shattering a mirror causes something other than a lot of work for the servants. But we stray from the topic. What are _your_ thoughts?”

“Confused,” said Elizabeth, after a moment. “I— I cannot deny that I have been brought up to want to have a respectable life as a wife and mother, with a partner who esteems me, but I have also been brought up to believe in the very mainline soulmark tradition, and so... Colonel Fitzwilliam was my one chance at achieving that.”

“Do you really think so now?”

Elizabeth took her time before responding, wanting to be honest, but not knowing how to make sense of all the contradictory feelings and thoughts and impressions at war within her breast. “I doubt it, more than I have at any other time in my life,” she settled upon. “I never thought I would be happy again after Richard died, and yet I am tolerably cheerful. Indeed, I was practically giddy when it was decided we were all to go to France.”

“I think it’s hard for you to acknowledge feelings that are not... the accepted ones, or the emotional responses I am guessing your mother taught you were the appropriate ones for a given situation.”

Elizabeth recalled, with dismay, her earlier realization that year— that she’d picked up the habit of talking of her marriage as a True March, as something rare and particularly desirable, from her mother. “I should hope the reality is a little more complicated than that. But I... I cannot, I had not—“ she made an annoyed noise. “I am doing my best to determine the difference between what I have been told is true and what I see to be true, but it’s a dreadful muddle sometimes. I’m sure you recall it took me about a month to acknowledge Wellington wanted me for a mistress.”

“Yes, I do recall that.

“With maddening clarity, no doubt.”

Marjorie smirked at her flowers. “Dear sister, I think he wants you for more than a mistress. He has not been acting as if this is merely a liaison to him.”

“Marjorie, I told you I refused unless he promised fidelity—”

“Not that, sister dear!

“Men don’t marry their mistresses.”

“Not ones they’ve set up in expensive little houses in Kensington, no, but men marry their lovers all the time. Oh dear— I suppose there’s an unbridgeable divide, in your mind, between women who sleep with men not their husbands and women who sleep only with their husbands? It’s far more nebulous than that. Especially for someone in your position— by which I mean, part of the _ton_ , widowed, respectable, well-connected, with two thousand pounds a year.”

“Some of that is from Richard’s pension, which I would lose if I married again.”

“You have a wealthy father-in-law who might be willing to make up the difference for the right connections. Face it, my dear, you are highly eligible.”

Elizabeth had picked up some work and pulled at the seam she had set, pulling at it to test for any errors. She did not dislike sewing, she was just too impatient a person to do well with long or complicated projects, and she was too poor an artist for her embroidery to come out looking like what she had intended— indeed, most of the time, it looked as if she had drawn inspiration from the works of Hieronymus Bosch rather than anything found in nature. “I am not unhappy with the way things are at present, and should only be unhappy if Wellington broke with me, which he assured me he would not at present—and I daresay he is not planning to, for it would make for a hellishly awkward houseparty this summer if he did. Oh, I would be unhappy if the liaison came to public attention.”

“Marriage would put an end to both of those problems very nicely.”

Elizabeth colored and looked down at her work again. “That all rather takes on faith that His Grace wishes to marry me.”

Marjorie raised her eyebrows. “And... giving you a bracelet, a gift that you cannot convince me is _not_ an intimate one— one I am sure he went out and bought, for the box bore the name of a Parisian jeweler—that does not denote serious intention?”

“It is an intimate present, yes, but I do recall that Madame de Pompadour’s famous pearl bracelets were a gift from Louis XV.”

“Perhaps not on its own, then,” said Marjorie, a little exasperated, “but when you look at it in conjunction to all the long letters he sends you that you do not read to anyone else, or let anyone else read, and just how often he is complimenting you and flirting with you in public—”

Elizabeth protested, “He is a terrible flirt; I don’t believe half the things he says to me. That and he likes wit. The other evening I was teasing him about _Glenarvon,_ asking if he was vanquished by my bright eyes and so forth, and he was gallant enough to say that the mark of a good general was knowing when to surrender. Very prettily phrased, but I think said because it was a pretty phrase and he knew it would amuse me.”

“I think you do him a disservice, thinking him insincere. He may be a rake, but he’s not the sort to wish to trick you, especially after that whole affair with Harriette Wilson.”

“Even if he said it because he meant it, not because it gave him pleasure to say it and myself pleasure to hear it, Wellington can hardly be eager to rush into a marriage after the disaster of his first one.”

“I think you do _yourself_ a disservice comparing the situations. He had been convinced Mrs. Jackson was his match, never wrote to her, barely spoke to her for years— indeed, he hardly knew her before they were married. Both of you know you are a match only in that your soulmates, or the people you considered your soulmates, are dead, you write each other constantly when you are not talking together, and indeed, I think you know each other better than any other couple I can think of when they decide to be married. And you are never going to convince me he has not at least entertained the notion of marrying you. Men do not ordinarily make a habit of being seen everywhere with their lovers, and— before you produce some historical and no doubt _French_ evidence to the contrary— I have never heard of any case where a man takes considerable satisfaction out of his lover’s bonding with his children, unless he is hoping to see her shortly thereafter their mother.”

Elizabeth had noted that Wellington was pleased when Lord Charles crawled into her lap in search of affection, or Lord Duoro questioned her about the Spanish Campaign; but had thought of it only as proof of how much better and interested a father Wellington was becoming with her encouragement. It had been a source of satisfaction in that it flattered her judgment... and only that, surely? She paused in her work with needle upraised and thread taut. “Is it— is it really so uncommon, for a man to treat his mistress as Wellington treats me? I had not thought so. He has so much experience in these sorts of affairs and I so little I assumed anything he did was just... how liaisons ought to be conducted.”

“It is uncommon both according to his own past pattern of behavior and the usual social standards about these things. We live in a permissive age, but it’s hardly common for men to go out of their way to have their mistresses to interact so much with their sons and heirs. Even when it’s an affair between equals, not men and the women who make a career of it, generally the man maintains the separation between his desires and his familial duties.”

Elizabeth tied off her thread and impatiently set her work aside. “I... oh! Here I was thinking I had finally got everything untangled and easy, and it’s just as confused as ever, only now I must somehow reconcile Elizabeth Bennet Fitzwilliam, country squire’s daughter, officer’s widow, generally respectable but unimportant personage, with the idea of the highest rank in the land! I cannot picture myself a _Duchess._ ”

“Not in the abstract, perhaps, but _Wellington’s_ Duchess? As long as you got a competent housekeeper— which I would certainly help you find— it would not be so very great an adjustment for you. You move in overlapping circles in town, and the same ones in military society. And everyone comes to you for news of him as is. And if you will forgive me for saying so, you could hardly do a worse job than the first Duchess.” Then, seeing Elizabeth was flustered and confused, said, “I don’t mean to push you too far, when you are not ready for it, but I do want you to be aware of what’s going on.”

“I don’t want to think about it until I’ve done my year and a day of mourning,” said Elizabeth. “I should feel horribly guilty if I did not.”

Marjorie looked at her sympathetically. “Ah. I understand. I should have guessed that. I will not press you, but do know I am here for you when you are ready.”  

Lady Melbourne was then announced. She had come to apologize for Lady Caroline and to be sure her son William Lamb had not lost the support of so powerful a Whig family as a result of the unthinking actions of his wife. Marjorie assured her of the Fitzwilliams’ support and Lady Melbourne turned a little anxiously to Elizabeth, to see whether or not Wellington held all the Lambs responsible for the one who had strayed from the flock.

“I should doubt it extremely,” said Elizabeth. “I cannot deny he was displeased by the novel, but I think he would have kept silent, if Lady Caroline had not tried to justify herself after Lord Stornoway’s... er....”

“Yes,” said Lady Melbourne. Then, delicately, “I do wish to assure you, Mrs. Fitzwilliam, that Caro is the only one to find such a version of events as unfolded in _Glenarvon_ believable. I heard no talk of anything similar from anyone else.”

“Is there talk?” Elizabeth asked, striving for nonchalance, but really only ending up sounding worried.

“It is most commonly believed,” said Lady Melbourne, carefully, “that the Duke of Wellington would like to fix his interest with you, however that may be accomplished, but that the Fitzwilliam notions of propriety have thwarted him on one avenue, and the Fitzwilliam notion of One True Matches have on the other. He is said to be currently laying siege, to see if there is a weakness in either line of defense. The only fault I have heard you accused of, Mrs. Fitzwilliam, is of cruelly holding out against the poor man, when he deserves a little happiness. Such determined shows of friendliness in the face of his gallantry and such blushes and laughing off of his continual flirtations! The ungenerous say you are holding out to be a Duchess. I always reply that I would much rather have Mrs. Fitzwilliam than the current Mrs. Jackson, to which there is usually agreement. It is the general belief that Lord Wellington is always so much easier to manage when Mrs. Fitzwilliam is about.”

Elizabeth blushed in confusion and mortification.

“I hope Caro has not upset any of your plans.”

Elizabeth shook her head and got out something, she knew not what, about not having plans, until Marjorie took pity on her and said, calmly, that it was impossible for her dear sister-in-law to think of such things when she was not yet finished with her mourning.

“Ah,” said Lady Melbourne. “I suspected as much. But do be assured that when you have done, you have allies to turn to.”

 

***

 

 _My very dear Jane_ , Elizabeth wrote, later that morning, feeling conscious of all she did not wish to think about,

_I am very sorry to say that I will not come and stay with you this summer, but for the very good and pleasant reason that we of Matlock House are all to France. The Earl has been v. secretly building up a case— more to convince himself than the rest of Parliament, truth be told— on whether or not the government ought to extend marriage rights and rites to those with soulmates of the same sex. Wn. has offered to host us for the summer, so the Earl can conduct his researches in a country that has already legalized it. The Earl proposes to take us all with him— the Stornoways, their children, me, Lady H and Ms. D— and we are to stay in Cambrai, where the English Army has its headquarters. It is a convenient distance from Paris, but its chief attraction, to me, is that Col. Kirke’s regiment is stationed there, for not only is Mrs. Kirke part of it, but after Waterloo, the colonel took in all surviving officers of Col. F’s regiment. Only the thought of seeing all my friends again could tempt me from your side— I hope you can find it in that generous heart of yours to forgive me. I promise a nice long visit when we are come back, in the fall._

She was tempted to end it there, but then thought it would look odd if she did not mention _Glenarvon._ She enclosed a copy of a political cartoon called ‘The Fitzwilliam Exhibition,’ in which a caricature of Lord Stornoway hopped about in front of all his embarrassed relations, who were doing their best to avoid being crushed by the large number of speech bubbles coming out of his mouth.

 _In the meantime, here is another bad picture of me. I do not know if news of_ Glenarvon _has come north yet, but it is Lady Caro’s salvo against Lord Byron, and she has hit nearly everyone in London while trying to aim at him. Lady Jersey told Marjorie she will revoke Lady C’s voucher for Almack’s, and Wn was provoked into giving her a public set-down. This was after Lord S made an ass of himself at the Royal Academy’s opening and answered all her accusations against our family in a v. crowded room. I was embarrassed at the time, and am still annoyed and exasperated with all the attention it has drawn down upon us— another reason Lord M is eager for France— but really, the lies she told! She scrupled not to accuse Lord M of every sort of villainy— and it is in support of that she scooped me up to use for her own ends. She has borrowed a v. common Gothic plot and ineptly applied it to our family. If you read the book, I beg you not to be too distressed. I was v. upset by it when I first read it, but now I can only think to laugh at it. It was a v. ill cast plot. To think my high church father-in-law capable of such immorality, or Wn. the greatest tactician of our era of such idiocy, or my intransigent self capable of being made to do anything I do not like, esp. by my father-in-law! Papa finds the whole situation so amusing he has already written me a v. dry letter about it all. Do try and keep Darcy from flying into the boughs. I know he thinks Wn. a rake of the first water, but tell him to keep in mind the habits and characters of the other two people shoved into this Drury Lane melodrama. Lord M is not about to trade me to Wn for a vote, and if he tried, I daresay_ I _wld be tried for murder shortly thereafter._

_As usual I include the half-dozen recipes I’ve managed to collect since last I wrote. I really do not know what I shall do when Lord M stops franking my letters. I shall either cost you a small fortune on postage fees or write crossways across the page so that you shall have neither my news nor my receipts despite my best attempts to send both, as well as--_

_All my love,_

_E. B. Fitzwilliam_

 

She sealed this before heading out to her usual Tuesday meeting of widows and veterans. Elizabeth was nervous her military circles might actually believe _Glenarvon_ or put a perhaps cruder interpretation on events. But they all found it patently absurd. Indeed, her hostess, Saanvi Fotheringay, asked, dubiously, “Are you sure this is supposed to be you? This Mrs. Fothingham has literally nothing in common with you except that she lost her husband and has an Earl for a father-in-law.”

“I don’t think she has much in common with any living creature, really,” said Elizabeth, relieved.

“An odd creature, Mrs. Fothingham,” said Mrs. Patrick, dimpling. “I can’t see her managing to survive a day with a bad gust of wind, let alone a full campaign.”

“I can’t imagine Mrs. Fothingham dousing the French with laudanum, or threatening to blow up any powder wagons,” agreed Mrs. Smith. “I cannot believe Lady Caroline actually talked to you in her life, Mrs. Fitzwilliam; not if she thinks this Mrs. Fothingham a good likeness.”

“I am just a means of attack on my father-in-law, I fear!”

“And what she has to say about the Duke of Wellington,” exclaimed Mrs. Mayhew. “I wouldn’t disbelieve he’d see your worth well enough to want to marry you, Mrs. Fitz, you’re of the right status and circles but can still talk battles to him— but to think a man as much a rake as His Grace would not know when a woman was willing and when she wasn’t!”

“And to think he wouldn’t be gentleman enough to care about the difference,” added Mrs. Smith.

“It’s not like there aren’t plenty of willing women all over,” objected Mrs. Mayhew. “I’d leave my bedroom door unlocked if he winked at me.”

“Mrs. Mayhew!” Elizabeth exclaimed, laughing and blushing.

“Don’t tell me you wouldn’t!”

“She wouldn’t, she’s a proper lady,” said Mrs. Patricks.

Elizabeth was then easy enough to make fun of the novel and report on the _ton_ ’s reaction to the novel, before the men arrived and everyone talked of their various griefs and pains and the progress on the hospital.

“Oh, I forgot to mention,” said Elizabeth, when everyone was gathering up their coats and the like (for May, it felt very much like February), “I am for France the first week of June. We are in Paris a week or two before going to Cambrai. If you have any letters that can be finished in time for our next meeting, I should be glad to carry them for you.”

This was very warmly received and no one at all questioned or doubted, as the Countess Lieven had, that there were any motivations behind such a trip other than Lord Matlock’s researches into a bill for same-sex marriages. This measure was a popular one among military circles, and the only questions her friends put to her were on the likelihood of the bill passing or when it might be introduced. She was in rather a sunny mood when she returned, and as Wellington was particularly attentive to her that evening, as he was departing for France the next day, her good spirits lasted the whole, busy time it took preparing for the journey abroad. There was the house to close up, clothes to sort through, repair, and pack (though not acquire; Marjorie had turned dreamy-eyed at the idea of Parisian modistes), people to take leave of, business to conclude. There was also Georgiana’s travel to arrange.

Georgiana did not go so far as to express a disinclination to go to France, but talked up Derbyshire so much it was clear where her preference lay. Lord Matlock wrote a note to Darcy asking when or if he might take Georgiana back to Pemberley in the next two weeks or if the Fitzwilliams should take her to stay with Lord Darcy. Darcy wrote that he was not able to come to London before they quitted it, and wrote to his great-uncle, asking if Georgiana might stay with him. He also wrote to Elizabeth.

She opened the letter with some misgivings, not entirely sure her note to Jane had been either read or shared, but though Darcy was clearly angry and annoyed with _Glenarvon_ , his ire was directed solely at Lady Caroline. To Elizabeth he was all concern; he was afraid such aspersions had upset or discomfited her and, generous soul he was, offered to ask Lord Darcy to house her until he could come down and escort her up to Derbyshire. It would be a comfort to be with her sister, surely, and though the situation up north was not as calm as Darcy would wish it, the Bingleys would of course by glad to have her.

She wrote back, _‘Darcy, you are too good! And alas, too good for society, or at least you attribute more goodness to them than I do, for if I left the company of Lord M so immediately after this was published and he agreed to stay with Lord Wn for the summer, every paper and pamphlet-writer would conclude that there was some truth to Lady C’s assertions. I think you can understand that I am most desirous of proving this wrong, and that Lord M is the model of propriety he has always been, and that I am not in the least being manipulated into impropriety to further Lord M’s causes. It is Marjorie’s opinion that a show of unity (and a purposeful removal abroad, and a pointed reaffirmation of our family’s intimacy with Lord Wn) is the only answer to this situation._

 _I confess that I find it unpleasant that Lady Caro seems to have opened the floodgates to every sort of rumor about our family’s connection with Lord Wn, but at least this St. Lizzy of the Muddy Petticoats she has drawn bears no actual resemblance to myself. There are whole afternoons where I find it more amusing than offensive. And you are v. good to worry about my comfort, but you forget that Colonel Kirke’s regiment is stationed in Cambrai! I shall be with all, or nearly all my military friends— all those who survived Waterloo. I confess to some relief at the idea of removing back into military circles. Without fail, every single one of them has found the Caro Lamb school of commentary ridiculous._ ’

Elizabeth took Georgiana over to Lord Darcy’s house herself, feeling she owed as much not just to Georgiana, but to Lord Darcy, who had been of such instrumental assistance. She cheerfully filled him in on all the family’s news, which he was not extremely interested in, except for the news that Lord Matlock was investigating a bill to extend marriage rights to same sex partners.

“A matter that the ecclesiastical courts have been fighting over for some centuries,” said Lord Darcy, “but Matlock’s wife’s people are still in positions of influence in the church. If anyone is well positioned to tackle this, it is Matlock. Persuade him to send me his drafts, Mrs. Fitzwilliam; I should be glad to see his reasoning.”

“I shall do my best, my lord.”

Lord Darcy at last turned his attention to Georgiana and said, “Here now young miss, business is over, there is no need to look quite so dull. We shall have your brother in but two days time, and until then, we shall lead a life of utter dissipation. I am seventy-two. I have earned that right.”

Georgiana dimpled.

“I have told my clerks to take care of all business for me at the courts for the rest of the week. You and I are going to the opera tonight and the theatre tomorrow, and when that brother of yours arrives I am going to pretend you are both still as young as I think you are and take you to Astley’s. Do you remember my taking you there when you were yay high?” He held a hand out to indicate about two feet. “You stood on your chair the entire time. Your mother was terribly embarrassed.”

Elizabeth kissed Georgiana and left her to reminisce with her great-uncle. She was sorry to miss Darcy before going abroad for the summer. Despite their history, he had been kind to her and had seen her through a very trying period with real selflessness; and he had not been _precisely_ wrong in regards to his concern about Wellington and his particular interest in Elizabeth. Darcy had been wrong in how Elizabeth felt about the whole affair, but Darcy need never know of that. She resolved not only to make sure Darcy never knew of her own feelings about her liaison with the Duke of Wellington or the liaison itself, but to send Darcy a very nice present from Paris. A ghastly modern painting that didn’t look like anything would do the trick nicely.

 

***

 

The crossing to France had been a perfect misery, and getting into a carriage immediately after that had done no good to Elizabeth’s temper. She supposed she was happy her father-in-law was so rich a man, for he had decided he would not be comfortable spending a whole summer someplace without at least three choices of carriages and his favorite hunter, so Elizabeth endured the ride from Calais to Paris in familiar comfort. It helped that Miss Fairfax and the children were in the second carriage, and Matlock and Stornoway had chosen to ride, thinking it the best method of recovery from the cramped quarters of the ship. But all her ginger tea and trying to nap against Lady Stornoway’s shoulder could not cure Elizabeth. She felt utterly miserable. When the carraige at last stopped, she at first thought she was hallucinating from sea-sickness when they saw Colonel and Mrs. Kirke waiting for them at the _hôtel_ _particulier_ (the French version of a townhouse, only on a much grander scale, with an entrance court in front and a garden in the back) that Wellington kept on the Elysée in Paris. The Earl dismounted in some confusion, saying, “Colonel… Kirke was it? Yes, you were my son Colonel Fitzwilliam’s particular friend, were you not? It is a pleasure to see you again, sir.”

“I was, Your Lordship,” said Colonel Kirke, clicking his heels together as he bowed, as he always used to so. “I regret that Lord Wellington was unable to greet you. There’s been a little trouble in Cambrai— nothing to worry you, just some drunk and disorderly men who got so in the presence of some of the more violent civilians, but as it is close to the anniversary of Waterloo, tensions are… high at present, and His Grace thought it best to be on hand himself until the situation resolved. He thought to send—"

“Mrs. Fitz!” exclaimed Mrs. Kirke, as a doorman helped Elizabeth out of the carriage.

Elizabeth sprang towards her with a glad cry. She flung her arms about Mrs. Kirke, holding tight and fighting the impulse to cry.

“Well,” said Colonel Kirke, with a grin, “he thought to send one of his aides, but Mrs. Kirke was so eager to see Mrs. Fitzwilliam I applied for the task of welcoming you to Paris and was granted it.”

Introductions were made, everyone was bustled indoors, the Stornoway children fussed, the servants were all suddenly in motion, but Elizabeth was insensible to it all. She was conscious only of how much she had missed her friend and how glad she was to see her again, and how very touched she was Wellington had not only noticed her friendship with Mrs. Kirke, but deliberately chosen the Kirkes to be their welcoming party.

“Oh Mrs. Fitz,” said Mrs. Kirke, holding tightly to her. “It has been far too long.”

“Oh my dear friend,” Elizabeth got out, “far, _far_ too long. How I have wanted you! How good of you to come to meet us! And Colonel Kirke, hello.”

Colonel Kirke chuckled. “Hello, Mrs. Fitz. I’ve been told to to warn you there is to be a ball in two days, as a more formal welcome, when His Grace and all his party, and what seems to me every officer in Cambrai descends upon Paris. That niece of old Nosey’s, Lady Burghersh, I think, who acts as his hostess— she’s been planning a grand do since she heard her uncle extended the invitation. Grand dress and all.”

“There’s hardly a scrap of lace left in Cambrai,” said Mrs. Kirke, at last releasing her.

“Oh I see! I am merely the excuse to come to Paris early and beat the crowds to the shoe roses.” Mrs. Kirke laughed, but soon as Elizabeth and the other ladies of the party had washed off the dirt of travel and changed their gowns, she lead them on a shopping expedition. The next two days were passed in these pursuits and in visiting and being visited. There were a surprising number of English aristocrats abroad, along with the expected military officers, and Wellington had sent his two nieces and their husbands ahead, keeping his aide Lord March behind in Cambrai while he finished up business. The younger niece, who was married to Wellington’s military secretary, Lord Fitzroy Somerset, was extremely beautiful, but in a state of ill-health treatable only by constant attention. The elder niece, Lady Burghersh, was prim but obviously very pleased by her position as hostess, and gracious to all the Fitzwilliams. She was kind enough to notice they were all exhausted from travel and decreed that dinner should be informally taken on trays in bedrooms before the ball. There was no point in sitting down when Lord Wellington was still in Cambrai and would certainly miss dinner, if not the beginning of the ball. When Elizabeth had finished her meal and was in stockings, stays, and petticoat, having her hair dressed, Marjorie floated in, as majestically but inexorably as a man-o-war. The fashion was now for shorter overdresses of transparent white material over colored silk slips, and Marjorie had one of white lace, over a slip of imperial blue satin. Her favorite sapphires gleamed with particular fire at throat, ears, and wrist.

“Lizzy dear,” said Marjorie, “you are behind-hand.”

“Yes,” said Elizabeth, with a sigh. “I cannot entirely decide on what to wear. I redid my over-robe—” gesturing at a gossamer Grecian tunic, open in the front and long in the back, the bosom and bottom newly adorned with white silk roses “—but I cannot determine on a slip. There is the gray you so kindly gave me, but after I spilled bearnaise sauce on my lilac silk Mrs. Pattinson was obliged to redo it as a slip rather than keep it a full dinner gown.”

“What are you wearing otherwise?”

“I do not know. I thought it all depended on the gown.”

“White pearls,” decided Marjorie, taking out Elizabeth’s pearl drops. Elizabeth felt a sudden twinge of grief; the pearl set had been her first Christmas present from Colonel Fitzwilliam. But would she really have felt unalloyed joy at any of her jewelry? With the exception of a few trinkets she had received as presents before her marriage, and a hideous ruby set she had inherited from a Fitzwilliam great-aunt, almost all her jewelry had been presents from her husband. Well, _almost_ all, she thought, eyeing the emerald and pearl bracelet Marjorie had taken out of Elizabeth’s jewelry box, on the hunt for the rest of her pearl set.

“This is such a lovely piece,” said Marjorie, eyeing the bracelet, “and brings out the hazel of your eyes so nicely. But I think it might cause talk if you wore it before June is up. We should get you an evening gown in green. Mrs. Pattinson, what are you planning for Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s hair?”

“I saved some of the white silk roses, my lady, and tied them to hairpins. And—“” she went triumphantly to the vase of flowers by Elizabeth’s bedside, and pulled out a branch of trumpet-like blossoms “—I do have some jacaranda blossoms. I think they might go nicely with the roses.”

“Then the lilac silk, of course,” decreed Marjorie.

Elizabeth obeyed and was not displeased with the image in the glass. She had managed to lose most of the weight she had put on over the winter, and had not yet turned tan from the summer sun. It was too bad she was not and could never be one of the voluptuous pale goddesses held up as the standard of beauty, but for a person inclined to slightness and brownness, she fancied she had done pretty well for herself. The slightly smokey, honeyed scent of the jacaranda blossoms mingled soothingly with the milk of roses cream she always applied, adding to her sense of being well-turned out; and she went down to the ballroom feeling she was at the zenith of her attractiveness, and having every hope of making a grand entrance. Elizabeth did not cause a stir when she entered the ballroom, for only the Fitzwilliams, the Wellington nieces and their husbands, and the Kirkes were present; and just before she walked in, an aide appeared informing them all that His Grace the Duke of Wellington had only just arrived and was now dressing. The nieces were so relieved they hardly took notice of Elizabeth, and then so many people arrived Elizabeth did not know if she was coming or going. Elizabeth did manage to steal a good quarter of an hour with Madame de Staël, but that was probably because no one would dare interrupt Madame de Staël. As the common aphorism went, there were three powers in Europe at present: England, Russia, and Madame de Staël.

They were seated in a corner of the ballroom and were interrupted only by the murmur of news that Wellington had at last arrived, and the orchestra cheekily breaking into, “See, the Conquering Hero Comes.” Elizabeth’s heart swelled, not with patriotism, but with tenderer emotions, and it was difficult for her to remain seated and keep looking at Madame de Staël instead of craning her neck for a sight of Wellington. “I beg your pardon, Madame, I could not hear you just now; what was it you were saying about...?”

”The Anglo-Allied troops in France,” said she. “It makes the population nervous to be so constantly patrolled.”

“I have no influence,” said Elizabeth, with a laugh, “but it is good of you to pretend so! Really, it is nothing more than spite and petulance on his part, that has made me a favorite whenever Wellington is in England. He does not wish to answer a lot of impertinent questions about his divorce, so he shelters with us, for we Fitzwilliams have only one answer to that.”

“Which is?”

Elizabeth held up her left wrist.

“You are very English in your sentiments then?”

“At least when it comes to soulmarks, the family is. They hold the line that your soulmark refers to the one person on earth whom you are ordained to marry. But I always like hearing what other cultures make of them. I was so fascinated to hear in Spain that it was supposed to refer to the name of your particular saint, not a husband!”

“But this... monomania of the Fitzwilliams,” said Madame de Stael, stirring the hot air with her fan. “This is very well known in England?”

“At least among aristocratic circles. I had no idea when I married the colonel, but I was rather a....” She couldn’t think of a French equivalent of a country miss, and tried, “a naïf? A girl from the country, very unpolished. Colonel Fitzwilliam I am sure blushed for me continually the first year we were married. I had never been to the opera, even, before he took me. I owe him a very great deal.”

“A very considerate man, your first husband.”

“Oh extremely! I shall never look upon his like again.”

“Of course not,” said Madame de Stael, complacently. “No two people on earth are exactly alike. But as Plato puts it, we never set foot in the same river twice. Time changes us all.”

“I have suffered a loss then, which is impossible to replace,” said Elizabeth, feeling suddenly melancholy.

Madame de Stael took pity on her and asked how she found fighting defensively for Wellington as her husband had.

Elizabeth admitted that British society was not quite so bad as Napoleon's Old Guard.

“Perhaps more like Marshal Messina’s forces in Spain?”

“My father has told me I am like the Lines of Torres Vedras for Wellington; the first line of defense against society is my presence, the second, my mourning, the third, my wit! We shall have to hope my presence and my wits will make up for my lack of blacks, now I am nearly out of mourning.”

“He is much besieged in England, I take it?”

“Terribly so. Look at how surrounded he is in France, where one would assume he would be unpopular.”

The crowd shifted a little; she caught a glimpse of Wellington, surrounded by men in brilliant uniforms and women in jewels and silks. As in London, the women pressed closest about him. Elizabeth had full view of Mrs. Marianne Patterson, whose sister-in-law had so captivated Jerome Bonaparte, looking adoringly up at Wellington. Wellington smiled and said something; Mrs. Patterson laughed and laid her gloved hand on his arm, looked unfairly gorgeous in her diamonds and white satin. She was a classical beauty, with dark hair and eyes, a creamy pale complexion, a beautiful figure, and a calm and languid grace suffusing every movement. Elizabeth felt a spurt of sudden jealousy. ‘This is perfectly ridiculous,’ she told herself. ‘Stop despising women who are beautiful the way you wish you were; your own looks are not bad; you had the love of a very good man and— no matter how long it lasts—you have the admiration of one of the most sought after men in Europe. Be content.’

It was easier to be content out of the reach of temptation. Elizabeth found her escort for the evening, Lord Fitzroy, and asked to go search of the children of her party. They had begged to be allowed to stay up and watch the dancing, which both Wellington and the Stornoways had agreed to, provided they stay out of the way and out of the ballroom— and under the supervision of Lady Stornoway’s governess.

Miss Fairfax was by one of the glass doors that opened on the terrace, watching the dancing with a wistful expression, one hand resting on Julia’s beshawled shoulder. It was cool out of doors, but the servants had set up braziers about the terrace, and after the heat of the ballroom, the cold was not unpleasant. Elizabeth walked over with her escort and said, brightly, “Miss Fairfax! How good it is to see you. May I introduce to you Colonel Lord Fitzroy Somerset? Lord Fitzroy, this is Miss Jane Fairfax, formerly Colonel Campbell’s ward.”

“Colonel Campbell— presently in Ireland I believe?” asked Lord Fitzroy.

Miss Fairfax looked a little surprised to be addressed and said, “Yes, he is. His daughter is lately married. She is now Mrs. Dixon.”

“Are you enjoying your evening so far?” asked Elizabeth.

“Very well, I thank you. I was admiring the dancing; the children are just here— they _were_ watching with me. Miss Fitzwilliam still is.”

Elizabeth looked out on the terrace. The boys had heard a toad and were now poking at the shrubbery with sticks trying to find it. Miss Fairfax noticed this and rushed over, quite alarmed, before scolding them into order once again.

“A ball can be very dull if one is not dancing,” said Elizabeth, trying to choke back a laugh. “I do regret that I am in mourning and cannot dance myself. Lord Fitzroy, I hate to keep you from enjoying the evening.” She looked significantly at Miss Fairfax.

Lord Fitzroy was a very gallant gentleman; he bowed at once and asked Miss Fairfax to dance, as he would welcome the opportunity to hear about Colonel Campbell.

She looked uncertain and stammered something about the children.

“I shall watch them,” said Elizabeth. “Go enjoy yourself! You know I cannot dance.”

Miss Fairfax uncertainly took Lord Fitzroy’s arm (taking care not to look at his lack of a second, part of the price of the victory at Waterloo) and let herself be borne off.

“Why can you not dance, Mrs. Fitzwilliam?” the little Lord Duoro asked.

“She is in mourning!” Julia said, scandalized.

“That means she cannot dance?” he asked.

“Or do anything fun,” said Laurie. “Mama said she could not go to a play if it was funny, or go out to dinner, or wear bright colors.”

“Yes, I am forbidden to do anything that I loved,” said Elizabeth, wryly.

“Is that why you are out on the terrace with us, Mrs. Fitzwilliam?” Lord Duoro asked.

“It makes me a little envious to see everyone dancing sometimes,” said Elizabeth, carefully.

“You are almost all done,” said Spencer encouragingly. “It is the Battle of Quatre Bras in a fortnight, Papa says, and said that was where Uncle Fitzwilliam was fatally wounded.”

Elizabeth had known this, but it was still like plunging suddenly through the ice of a frozen lake, into the clinging waters below. She struggled not to let this show and said, brightly, “Yes— and I wonder what the next is. Julia, did you mark if Lord Fitzroy asked Miss Fairfax for a specific dance, or just the next?”

“Just the next,” said Julia. “But they are dancing a cotillion now. I know it is a cotillion for everyone changes partners. Mama begun the dance with Lord Granville and now she is with Duoro’s Papa.”

Elizabeth could not see very much through the headdresses and feathers of the ladies. “The crowd is more difficult to see over than under, I fear,” said Elizabeth.

“And it is two rows deep,” added Julia, rather glumly. “I cannot see much of the dancing at all! But it was so hot indoors that I could not pay attention to what I was seeing. It is monstrously unfair. It is an important ball, Mama said so, and so did Papa, and so did Grandpapa, and I told all my cousins I would write to them about it. But I do not even know how to describe what the dancing looks like!”

Spencer, thinking to do a gallant thing for an aunt for whom he had a marked partiality, said, “Well I take lessons at school, and I am sure Aunt Fitzwilliam still remembers how to dance. We can give you some idea of it.”

“I am still in mourning, Spencer,” said Elizabeth, reprovingly.

“But is it really dancing if it is only one couple?” asked Spencer, wheedlingly. “And if it is to show Julia something, then it is not wrong, it cannot be wrong. And you said you would watch us while our governess was dancing, and the job of our governess is to teach us, so you ought to teach us—”

“Stop, stop,” said Elizabeth, laughing. “You were born to be a politician, Mr. Fitzwilliam! Your mother will be delighted. Dear Miss Fitzwilliam, would you be so good as to assist me with my train?”

Julia swelled with pride, and pinned Elizabeth’s gown rather crookedly, but securely. Elizabeth and her nephew managed about a third of a cotillion, swinging around invisible partners most of the time, and managed to entertain the others well enough. The next was a waltz, which caused a little susurration of anxiety amongst the British guests, and a titter of laughter at them from the continentals.

“I do not know the waltz,” said Spencer, in a mortified whisper.

“Oh well,” said Laurie. “We can always look for the toad again. I swear I did hear one.”

Elizabeth agreed, “To dance twice in a row with an unattached gentleman will surely cause comment. I had better sit out the next.”

Julia scowled. “Oh but I must know a waltz! I heard Grandpapa say he would never allow them at balls at home! This is my only chance!”

“We could probably sneak back in,” said Elizabeth.

Julia had more than her share of obstinacy, and had not yet learnt how to cloak this with sweetness, as her mother did; she mulishly folded her arms and said, “But the dance is about to begin, and we shall miss the beginning.” She turned to Laurie and the Wellesley boys, who had found the long-sought after toad and were busy watching it rather than any of the dancing. “Duoro, I heard my Mama say that everyone waltzes on the continent.”

“Grown-ups do,” said Duoro, rather contemptuously. “Careful, Charles, he’ll get away!”

Laurie ran to block the toad’s likely avenue of escape. Charles grandly waved about a branch clearly pulled out of the shrubbery and ineptly denuded of leaves, saying, “Papa waltzes, he said he learned at the Congress of Vienna. But we haven’t been to Vienna, so we didn’t learn.”

“But you have seen people waltzing?” asked Julia.

“Oh, hundreds of times,” said Duoro, grandly.

“Then you can dance with Aunt Lizzy and show me what it’s like,” Julia concluded triumphantly.

“But we’ve got a toad!” Duoro protested, outraged.

“I can watch the toad,” offered Laurie.

“See?”

“I _don’t_ see why I should,” grumbled Duoro.

“Please?” asked Julia. “I’ll give you my marzipan roses, the ones my Papa got me.”

Duoro struggled. The temptations of toad-tending and marzipan-eating were about equal, but when Julia added, “And you can be colonel of the regiment when we play at Spanish guerillas tomorrow,” he agreed.

“But I’m colonel,” protested Spencer. At Julia’s glare, he said, “Oh all right! Duoro can be colonel. But only if I get to be the French colonel instead. And Laurie’s my aide-de-campe instead of Duoro’s.”

This struck the young marquess of Duoro as a fair bargain. He dusted his palms off on the knees of his trousers and offered at hand to Elizabeth. “Mrs. Fitzwilliam, may I have the waltz, please?”

Elizabeth fanned herself with a gloved hand. “Oh my! An invitation to dance from a marquess! I shall certainly write home about this. Thank you my lord.”

Duoro had but a vague idea of what a waltz was, or how it was supposed to go. Elizabeth had to not just count aloud but give directions, and this not always very helpfully or coherently. At least, she reflected, eyeing the backs of the dancers in the ballroom, and the indifference of most of the children (who seemed more interested in the toad than her), no one could really see her making a fool of herself. “And we go out of the promenade to— no, left hand up— up—”

“One couple is not precisely adequate for a dance,” came Wellington’s voice, as Elizabeth struggled to give some idea of the proper framing when her partner came up only to her waist. Elizabeth turned and blushed, not so much from having been caught as from seeing Wellington for the first time in relative privacy.

He was in full dress uniform, all over stars and ribbons— a sight to distract women of greater self-control than Elizabeth— and obviously in a good humor as he pulled on his gloves once more. Elizabeth was conscious of how much she had missed him, in her sudden delight in seeing him before her, in how quickly his smile won an answering one from her.

“As my nephew Mr. Fitzwilliam has pointed out,” she said, trying to keep Duoro on beat in the fastest section, the sauteuse, where they were to hold each other and leap in a small circle  “—one two three, one two three— yes, that’s it, hop like that— if there is but one couple, I am not actually dancing, and therefore I cannot be said to really be breaking convention. And if that does not convince you, I am temporarily standing in for Miss Fairfax, who was asked to dance by your nephew-in-law and aide-de-campe. If I am to play at being a governess for half an hour, I must teach my nieces and nephews something.”

“And so you choose the waltz?” he asked, smiling at her half in fondness, half in exasperation. “Very proper subject!”

“I would never make it as a governess, I am afraid.” She tried to take them from the spinning leaps of the sauteuse into the leap-hop-pivot of the ‘jettée.’ “Not quite, my lord Duoro— oops.”

“I think you might learn more from observation, Duoro,” said His Grace, catching Lord Duoro, who had not quite held onto Elizabeth’s hands and spun away.

Duoro was quite relieved to run back to his toad, before a dreadful thought occurred to him. He turned to Julia. “Do I still get the marzipan?”

“What Machiavellian bargains have been struck here?” asked Wellington, extending his left hand to Elizabeth. Elizabeth put her left hand in Wellington’s and tucked her right behind her back. His right hand brushed lightly, teasingly down the small of her back until he grasped her right hand, and she curled her fingers about his. The night air was cold— several times just that evening she had heard everyone complain this was the year without a summer— and she could feel his warmth through the dual layers of their gloves. She was so distracted she stumbled a little as they began.

He smirked. “Promenade first, my dear.”

“Miss Fitzwilliam said I might have her marzipan roses if I shewed her the waltz,” said Duoro.

“But you did not finish it,” protested Julia.

“That is not my fault!”

Wellington and Elizabeth ended their promenade; they turned to face each other, raising their left arms in an arm over their heads. She found herself incapable of meeting his eyes and looked to the side, as if worried about the train of her gown becoming unpinned. Wellington turned his attention to the children. “As it is my fault, I shall take on the penalty. Remind me to talk to the cook tomorrow morning. Look lively, Mrs. Fitzwilliam.”

He held both of her hands behind her back as he spun her through the sauteuse, and then whirled her though the jettée with remarkable speed; she was half-breathless when the music changed back to the promenade. This was a difficult transition even for those in the habit of dancing. Elizabeth had been a year out of it, and spun smack into His Grace’s chest instead of moving back to the slow part of the dance.

“Steady on, my dear,” he said, tightening his grip about her, to keep her from falling.

A sudden flush of desire crept up her neck to her cheeks. Elizabeth looked up at him and was conscious of how close they were, how captivating his gaze was, how desperately she wanted him. He moved his left arm, gently turning them both to face the dark shapes of the garden beyond, and offered his left hand to her again. They had only a few steps of the promenade before they turned to face each other again, left arms raised overhead, hands palm to palm.

They turned about each other, eyes meeting.

Elizabeth could not look away.

The music seemed to stretch and slow, making everything around them strangely sharp; the sound of the cicadas and crickets adding their voices to the strings, the faint chill so much more like February than June, the whisper of gossamer robe against silk slip, the gradiated darkness of the garden about them, the dim light of beeswax candles refracting off crystal pendants and filtering through the sets of dancers and rows of observers; the warm touch of his hand through his glove, the arm about her waist, the familiar scratch of gold braid at the end of his sleeve, pressing against her right wrist, the brilliant blue of his eyes, the surprising softness of his smile. He seemed the only stable point in a world that spun dizzyingly about her. ‘Well now Miss Lizzy,’ she thought to herself, in her mother’s voice, ‘what a nice fix you are in now! You are quite lost.’

It took Elizabeth a moment to realize the orchestra had really slowed and had, in fact, struck their final cords. She felt a frisson of disappointment working its way through her limbs; if there had been a way to remain like this, to linger in his arms, she would have happily done so all evening.

Wellington took a step back, releasing her right hand. Though he lowered their left arms, he brought her hand to his lips immediately after doing so. A common enough courtesy, but Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat— especially when, after a glance at the children behind Elizabeth, making sure they wouldn't see, he turned her hand over and kissed her soulmark through her glove.

“You, sir, are a rogue,” murmured Elizabeth, blushing violently.

“And here I was, thinking that a lady always ends a dance by thanking her partner.”

Elizabeth recalled the children were still watching them and said, primly, “I thank you for the dance, Your Grace.”

“It was beyond a pleasure, Mrs. Fitzwilliam.” He at least released her hand, and turned his attention to the children, who had watched their dance with but half-an-eye, obsessed, as they still were, with the toad they had found. Wellington was fond of children, if occasionally without patience for their antics, and quickly entered into praise and study of the toad.

Julia came over and offered, properly and somewhat pompously, to help Elizabeth with her train. As soon as this was unpinned, a gentleman most decidedly not Lord Fitzroy Somerset led back Miss Fairfax.

“Your Grace!” Miss Fairfax exclaimed, before curtsying deeply. Her companion bowed so quickly he might have been snapped in half at the waist.

“I— I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” said Miss Fairfax. “I—”

“I know Mrs. Fitzwilliam is to blame,” said His Grace, mussing his younger son’s hair before straightening up. “Mind you don't get dirt on your trousers, Charles.”

“I hadn't realized the waltz was after the cotillion,” said Elizabeth. “I hope I did not get you in trouble with Lady Stornoway.”

“I did not dance the waltz,” said Miss Fairfax. “I did not think it proper.”

“I cannot think it is that bad,” said Julia. “I watched it and it seems like loads of fun. Was it not, Aunt Lizzy?”

“I do love a waltz,” she replied. “Miss Fairfax, I return your charges to you, but you have left me without escort! What happened to Lord Fitzroy?”

“Mrs. Somerset was indisposed,” said Miss Fairfax.

“She usually rallies so remarkably for balls,” said Wellington, dryly. “Mrs. Fitzwilliam, it appears I have the privilege of leading you in, until my nephew can be found.”

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow at Miss Fairfax’s partner until he turned and proceeded into the ballroom before them, then took Wellington’s arm. She was entirely unsurprised when Wellington leaned down to whisper in her ear, “Perhaps I might tempt you into a detour?”

“You know you could tempt me into anything.”

“I think the library might be both close and deserted— it’s across the hall from the room my nieces decided upon as the ladies’ retiring room.”

But as soon as they entered the ballroom, they were set upon by the Duchess of Richmond, who playfully scolded Wellington for having absented himself from the waltz. “Really Arthur, you caused half the dancers to come late to the set. Every unclaimed lady was delaying accepting a partner, as they were all looking about for you.”

“Precisely why I thought it better to go and check on my sons,” he replied. “They were quite tormenting poor Mrs. Fitzwilliam with their adventures toad-hunting.”

“Preferable to toad-eating even so,” quipped Elizabeth, to the laughter of the other two.

“I wish you could dance,” said the Duchess of Richmond. “It must be very dull for you.”

“There are other consolations,” said Elizabeth, a little evasively. “If you will excuse me...?”

“Only if I must.” Wellington deftly slid his right hand under where hers was resting in the crook of his left arm, and raised her hand to his lips, murmuring, “Later?”

She smiled in acquiescence and promise. Elizabeth quietly exited the ballroom, as if in the direction of the ladies’ retiring room. It was easy to slip into the library unobserved. It was lit only by moonlight, which streamed through the windows, which overlooked the gardens. The lack of artificial light, when she closed the door, gave her a feeling of clarity, as if she had wiped off the surface of her mind as one might dust a shelf.

Her emotions seemed somehow less complicated, her desires simple and easily fulfilled. Her distresses were rooted in the past rather than the present and she resolved to think no more of them, at least not in the library. Anticipation of the sweetest kind filled her mind; for once the future held more primacy than the past. The night did not seem so very dark; the dimness, the quietness, was a comfort against the aspect of forced gaiety she had put on with her ballgown. She idly pulled a book off the shelf and let her eyes rest on the page. It was not easy to read in only the moonlight, and she soon gave up the attempt. Instead, she luxuriated in her anticipation.

The door opened; yellow light from the hall spilled in, like a roll of silk unfurling on a haberdasher’s counter. Wellington's familiar silhouette seemed cut out of it as he paused in the doorway, eyes adjusting to the darkness.

“Your Grace,” said Elizabeth, shelving the book and curtseying.

He shut the door behind him, locked it, and strode over to her. “By God,” he said, “how glad I am to see you again.”

“Your Grace,” Elizabeth said, laughing a little, opening her arms to him, “You saw me barely a moment ago.”

“ _Saw,_ yes, but it has been two weeks since I have kissed you properly.”

“You would do better to kiss me improperly, for I shan't be satisfied until you do.”

He was happy to oblige, and took her by main force, as was their mutual preference; up against a bookshelf, her lilac silk hiked up, with a froth of petticoats about her waist. She held onto the shelf at first, until the wood began to dig painfully into her right elbow, and then she put her arms about his shoulders. He gripped her hips more firmly in response, holding her in place as she began to arch against him.

“Nearly there, sir,” she got out, trying to press closer to him, to find that one particular bit of contact that would bring her to her peak.

“Steady on; I’ve got you, sweetheart.” He moved a hand from her hip and began to stroke her until her breath caught in her throat, and she tilted her head back, overwhelmed with sensation and let out a soft cry as she peaked; he pressed even closer, filling her, holding her, and with a few deep thrusts, groaned and buried his face against the side of her neck. She was still dazed with the aftershocks of her pleasure to pay much attention to his mumbling.

“Mm?” she asked.

“Incoherent compliments, my love, that is all.” Wellington raised his head. “Did you put jacaranda blossoms in your hair for me?”

“I did! I thought it would please you.”

“Oh my sweet girl, it does, enormously. Will you come to me tonight?”

She affectionately stroked the short hair at the nape of his neck. “What further satisfaction canst thou have tonight?”

His answer was short and explicit.

Elizabeth laughed. “I have no idea where your room is and am a little afraid I shall not be able to find mine again once I leave it. It is too bad your nieces do not chalk names on the doors, as they do in the army.”

“Will you allow me to come to you?”

Elizabeth paused, feeling vaguely nervous. She had always gone to him; only her husband had come to her, in her room. It seemed strangely more personal to have a lover come spend the night in her bed, than spending the night in his. “I....”

She looked uncertainly at him; his expression was fond, his eyes soft. They were still intimately joined, the hum of contented energy that always filled her after such acts still filled her mind and suffused her limbs. It felt a silly barrier to have, this objection that he should come to her, that they should be in her bed instead of his own.  

“Yes— yes, Your Grace. I will allow it.” She tried to look lofty and proud, to hide her feelings with a joke. “You have petitioned me in a charitable mood. But wait an hour after I retire; it takes longer to get out of grande tenue than a dinner gown.”

“I humbly thank you, Madame.” Wellington bent to kiss her, lightly, and whispered against her lips, “By God, I have missed you.”

They pulled apart and began to straighten out their clothing. Elizabeth, uneasy at the joy this pronouncement had sparked in her breast, went to check her reflection in the mirror above the fireplace, and said, airly, “How sweet of you to say so! But I imagine you had other consolations here. You cannot have been very much in want of company.”

“In want of your company, my dear.” He then understood what she was hinting at and looked a little offended. “Come now, Mrs. Fitz. I promised you fidelity, and I am a man of my word. You ask for so little else from me, it would have been ungentlemanly in the extreme to deny you. Here.”

He found a silk rose that had fallen from her hair to the floor and passed it to her.

“I know I asked,” said Elizabeth, her gloved fingers brushing his, as she took the hair ornament back, “I just— I supposed you wouldn't... I supposed it was only true when you were in England.” She turned quickly back to the mirror and tried to recall where the silk rose had been ten minutes ago, holding it up here and there without actually looking at the effect this produced. The tumult of her mind was uncomfortably great. Her comfort with engaging in such a liaison was directly proportional to the blasé manner in which Wellington had handled it. This increase in seriousness bewildered her; she did not know how to act.

“My dear,” he said, plucking the silk rose from her hand and tucking it neatly in an empty twist of ribbon at the back of her head, “I realize why you would have cause to doubt, but I have learnt my lesson.” His hand lingered on her hair, as affectionate as he always was after they had been intimate. “You see before you a rake reformed— or at least somewhat more cautious. There has been no one but you since January.”

Elizabeth was extremely startled to hear this, and her confusion only increased when, his hand still on her hair, he added, “I have not wanted or needed anyone but you since then. I am not sure I ever shall.”

This fell into a sudden silence— the orchestra down the hall had finished, and there was a heartbeat of quiet before the dancers applauded.

“We shall be missed,” said Elizabeth quickly, smoothing down her white gossamer overdress, and hoping the new creases would not be too noticeable. “Will you go first? They will look for you first.”

Wellington affectionately kissed her forehead. “Yes my dear. I shall see you later.”

She hardly noticed his kiss, the tumult of her mind was so great, and watched him go in some perplexity, shock warring in her breast with a dawning, tremulous joy.


	10. In which Mrs. Fitzwilliam narrowly averts catastrophe

It was vexing in the extreme, Elizabeth concluded, watching the door close, to get what one wanted without realizing all the inferences of one’s desire. Oh she had wanted this, certainly. She had badly wanted his fidelity. But she had not known she had wanted it given willingly until he had done so. She had not known how much she wanted him to love her. And it seemed he did.

A sort of tremulous joy moved in her breast, wobbly and new as a kitten walking for the first time, but even now she felt conflicted. She had not mourned a full year. How could she be thinking of another man like this? How could she be so happy to think of a lifelong passion with anyone but her soulmate?

‘It is ‘til death do you part,’ Elizabeth thought to herself. ‘Death has parted you.’

The room suddenly seemed stuffy, as if Wellington had taken all the light and air with him. Elizabeth heard the sounds of the next dance (a cotillion, she thought) beginning, but could not yet face the ballroom, hot and noisy as it was, stuffed all with people.

She went to the windows and struggled to push one open. Elizabeth eventually managed it, and, by the sounds of it, startled a servant. She stepped back, out of sight, and as she heard the servant beating a very hasty, noisy retreat across the gravel, and felt relatively sure she had not been seen. Still, she felt safer enjoying the evening breeze embedded within of the window curtains. The rush of air cooled her flushed cheeks... and pushed her curls into further disorder. Elizabeth closed her eyes and sighed. There was always a give and take these days. Nothing ever remained singularly, straightforwardly good. She began to feel uneasy and anxious. Elizabeth could not determine why she was edging on towards panic— everyone had already been hinting to her that Wellington was serious in his attentions and his intentions. She had not liked to acknowledge it, but she had known it— and now everything seemed somehow wrong. Even the air did not feel right or smell right. It smelled like—

Like something burning.

Like cloth burning, in particular.

She opened her eyes, looking about wildly in search of burning cloth, of the source of the smoke she now saw floating hazily through the air. The panicked thought that it could not be escaped, that the whole house was on fire, just like the chateau of Hougoumont, rose up to choke her; it was suddenly difficult to breathe. She leaned out of the window and spotted smoke rising from below, drifting through a cellar window.

Elizabeth had run out into the hall before really being aware of where she was going; she saw a lady emerging from a room, and dashed into it. There was a trio of maids assembled, and one, noting her haste, pointed to a couple of tall, painted screens hiding the chamber pots. Elizabeth had evidently run into the lady’s retiring room.

“No, that is— smoke, there is smoke—”

But the maids were French and looked at her, quite puzzled.

What was the word for smoke? Elizabeth gestured towards the library. “ _Il y a du… du feu. Pas dans la bibliothèque mais…_ oh God. Below?” She tried to mime it. “ _Dessous_ ? _En bas de la bibliothèque. Fumée! Fumée dans la bibliothèque!_ ”

The maids were quite astonished. One went to go check and returned in a panic, speaking French so rapidly, and in such Parisian intimations Elizabeth understood not a word. The other two maids did understand, for one of them ran from the room to the servant’s door and disappeared behind it, and the other ran for the butler. Elizabeth paused the third and managed to get out, in a hodgepodge of French and English with no discernible grammatical structure, that she wished for her maid, Mrs. Pattinson. The third maid nodded before disappearing through the servant’s door as well. Elizabeth retired behind one of the screens, and finding clean clouts, water pitcher, and bowl, as well as chamber pots. The absurd, panicked thought that she did not want anyone to know why she had really been in the library took root and blossomed into a very agitated wash.

“Mrs. Fitzwilliam?” came Mrs. Pattinson’s voice.

Elizabeth hastily let fall her skirts and was still pulling on her right glove when she emerged from behind the screen. “Mrs. Pattinson! What is happening?”

“There was a rag on fire in one of the storeroom cellars, Mrs. Fitzwilliam,” said Mrs. Pattinson, looking worried, “right by three open barrels. Two of oil.”

Elizabeth felt the blood draining from her face. “Good God. That could have ended so very badly—”

“Could’ve been worse, ma’am,” said Mrs. Pattinson. “The third barrel was full up with gunpowder.”

She couldn’t have heard that correctly.

“Gunpowder?”

“Yes ma’am,” said Mrs. Pattinson.

“But that— why would there be gunpowder in a larder? Are there— it isn’t the fashion to have a gun room here, surely? In Paris, where there is no sport to be had? And His Grace never carries a weapon except his sword— I do not understand. Is there any reason for there to be so much gunpowder in this house?”

Mrs. Pattinson said grimly, “No ma’am, there ain’t any reason I can account for, nor is there any reason there should be two barrels of oil and a burning rag near it. Unless—and this was Mr. Pattinson’s opinion too, ma’am— someone put them all in there together on purpose.”

How could the orchestra still be playing? Elizabeth thought, her limbs numb, her mind dazed. How could people keep dancing? How could they not know how very close they had come to disaster? Mrs. Pattinson came forward and said, “Here now ma’am, let’s just sit a moment— that’s right, head between your knees and breathe deep. Lord ma’am, what have you been doing to your hair? You weren’t even dancing.”

“Mrs. Pattinson,” said Elizabeth, to her silk-clad knees, “has the news of this gone beyond the upper servants? Have any members of the household been alerted?”

“No, ma’am—the butler and the housekeeper was quarreling if they should alert someone of it, or if it would spoil the dancing.”

It always soothed Elizabeth to have someone fussing with her hair; this and the chance to sit and keep her head down was clearing the panic from her mind. “Lord Fitzroy Somerset is attending his wife, I think, and is not part of the dancing. Would you be so good as to find him, or send your husband to find him, and let Lord Fitzroy know what has happened?”

“Of course, ma’am.” Mrs. Pattinson tweaked a final curl into order and went off at once.

The dance ended, to applause this time; there was a bustle of ladies coming into the retiring room. Elizabeth straightened up and tried to compose herself. Fortunately for her, Mrs. Kirke came in first, took one look at her and exclaimed, “Mercy me, Mrs. Fitz! Are you feeling quite the thing? It’s an inferno in there, I don’t wonder at your taking a dizzy turn.”

“Not exactly,” said Elizabeth, “but—give me a minute, will you?”

Mrs. Kirke agreed and disappeared behind the screen. When she reappeared, she took a seat by Elizabeth. They were in a far corner of the room, away from the doors and screens, near a window. In a low voice she asked, “I don’t mean to force a confidence, but whatever is the matter?”

“The servants have found a barrel of gunpowder in a cellar below the library,” said Elizabeth, after making sure the other ladies were to distant to hear them, “along with a lighted rag someone was kind enough to drop by two open barrels of oil.”

Mrs. Kirke looked her alarm. “No one’s told our Atty yet, I imagine.”

“I sent my maid to go tell Lord Fitzroy. She only just told me.”

There were only a few people in the retiring room with them; Mrs. Kirke glanced quickly around, the tall feathers in her headdress making it look as if she had an exclamation point over her head, and softly asked, “And are you sure the servants have the right of it?”

“Not a maid, or any maid told this to me, Beatrice— it was my maid, Mrs. Pattinson. She would have no reason to lie, or to distress me unnecessarily—and the more I think on it, the more likely it seems. Every English person of rank within twenty miles of Paris is here, as well as any French nobleman and statesman and salonniere whom His Grace thought my father-in-law ought to know, and any number of officers from other countries. Any number of people could want any one of the guests here dead.”

“I fancy, though,” said Mrs. Kirke, grimly, “that it’s our Atty they wanted to get particularly, by putting it all under his house.”

“Oh God,” said Elizabeth, and struggled not to cry.  

The orchestra struck the chords for the next dance; there was a general exodus. Elizabeth tightened her grip on Mrs. Kirke’s hand. Scarcely had the last skirt hem vanished from sight than did Lord Fitzroy Somerset stride in. The empty right sleeve of his uniform jacket had become unpinned and flapped in a perfectly absurd way, like a military banner streaming in the breeze.

“Over here, Lord Fitzroy,” called out Mrs. Kirke, in a tone of forced gaiety. Then, when he was nearer, “There— there isn’t any danger of explosion now, is there?”

He said, grimly, “I see you know about what was found in the cellar, Mrs. Kirke.”

“Aye, Mrs. Fitzwilliam told me.”

“I am sorry, perhaps I should not have done,” said Elizabeth, struggling for composure, “but I was— I was the one who smelled the smoke, you see, I was too distressed not to—”

“That is understandable. I cannot blame you for telling your particular friend what distressed you, ma’am, especially when your friend is Mrs. Kirke.” He drew a chair towards them. “There isn’t any danger now; a maid removed the burning rag and when I went belowstairs, the barrel of gunpowder had been removed and was in the process of being taken out into the garden. But still, it was a damned close-run thing, to steal a phrase of my uncle’s. If our assassin had tossed in his burning rag and managed to hit one of the open barrels, instead of dropping it through the window, as it appeared he did, I daresay you wouldn’t have had time to smell the smoke, Mrs. Fitzwilliam.”

“Good God,” said Elizabeth, faintly.

Lord Fitzroy leaned towards Elizabeth and said, urgently, “I have sent men out to search the garden, and to look about the streets, but I need to know exactly what you saw and when. Was there anyone in the garden, when you were in the library?”

“No, I do not think so. That is— I thought I startled a servant when I opened a window, but I did not see anyone. Or hear anyone until then.”

“Were you in the library long?”

She began to blush. “I—I wasn’t looking out the window very long, no.”  

“How long were you in the library?”

“Um, not very. No more than fifteen minutes. I went in after a reel had begun and I remember hearing it end and thinking to myself I ought to go back, but I didn’t feel quite up to facing the crush, so when the cotillion started, I opened the window instead. I was by the bookshelves until then.”

Lord Fitzroy looked askance at her. Elizabeth was not a very good liar, and she fancied he could tell she was concealing something from him. But she did not want to admit all she had been doing.

“I— I got a little turned about, in search of the retiring room,” said Elizabeth, blushing. “The library seemed as good a place as any to rest for a set, but it was rather— rather close, so I opened a window for some fresh air. Then I smelled smoke, and I ran out into the hall and saw the actual retiring room and told the maids and I haven’t left since.”

A couple of different maids came in to tidy, followed by a butler, who informed them all very gravely that there had been so many people delivering wine and foodstuffs for the past few days, and so many servants of guests bringing about various horses and carriages no one had particularly marked anyone bringing in the barrel of gunpowder. Nor had they noticed anyone tossing a rag into the cellar. The servants had all been occupied in the kitchen, which was below the ballroom, and the ballroom itself, which took up the left side of the house, when not occupied with all the various conveyances cluttering up the drive and crammed into the stables. No one had been at all facing the garden or occupied with it. No one had seen any suspicious characters— well (this with a depreciating cough), one saw a lot of Frenchmen about but that could hardly be avoided, seeing as they were in France.

“Thank you,” said Lord Fitzroy, who had been taking notes in a little book balanced on his knee. He had told Elizabeth only the evening before how difficult it had been to learn to write left-handed and Elizabeth was not surprised to see that his writing still had a cramped look and skittered across the page. “You may go. I will send for you if you are needed. Mrs. Fitzwilliam, you only went to the window after you heard the cotillion begin?”

“Yes, my lord. I wish I had gone earlier.”

Lord Fitzroy had picked up—consciously or unconsciously— Wellington’s somewhat abrupt manner, and said, “Right.” He rapped the page before him with the unsharpened end of his pencil. “My uncle ought to be informed, but I see no reason why the entertainment should be halted when the danger is passed— it will cause undue panic. Mrs. Fitzwilliam, would you kindly remain here, in case His Grace has any questions?”

“I will stay if I may selfishly keep Mrs. Kirke with me,” said Elizabeth.

“I shan’t be moved from this chair,” Mrs. Kirke declared stoutly.

“Have you need of anything else, Mrs. Fitzwilliam?” asked Lord Fitzroy.

“I would be grateful for a little brandy, to steady the nerves.”

Lord Fitzroy cracked a smile. “You _are_ an infantryman’s widow, aren’t you? Here.” He put away notebook and pencil and pulled his own flask out of an inner pocket, with an apologetic, “Cognac, I’m afraid.”

Elizabeth took a swing and offered the flask to Mrs. Kirke, who drank as well, before passing the flask back. Lord Fitzroy clicked his heels together and departed. Elizabeth and Mrs. Kirke scarcely had time to go over everything that had happened before a different aide-de-camp, Lord March, came for Elizabeth and requested she come to the library.

It looked quite a different room with candles blazing in every corner and on every table, and officers wearing the uniforms of nearly every country in Europe, clustered about a desk. The three housemaids from earlier were pointing at a burnt rag a footman was holding on a silver tray. A lady’s maid was attempting to translate both for the maids, and for all the gentlemen showering them with questions in what seemed to Elizabeth’s ear every Indo-European language known to man. Wellington was behind the desk, leaning  to the right, with his right elbow on the arm of his chair, looking calm and imperturbable, except for the periodic tapping of his left forefinger on the tabletop. He glanced up at their entrance, gaze lingering on Elizabeth with concern. She did not feel up to smiling, but gave a slight curtsey.

Wellington raised his left forefinger.

Gradually all fell silent. He lowered his finger.

“Thank you,” said Wellington to the maids, in French. “Return to your places in the ladies’ retiring room. I shall send for you if you are needed.” He looked back at Elizabeth and a shade of warmth crept into his tone when he said in English, “Mrs. Fitzwilliam, are you quite alright?”

“A little shaken, Your Grace, but I think that is only to be expected,” said Elizabeth. Her voice trembled, but did not break, and her legs did not give out.

Wellington scrounged up a smile for her; it was as warming as the cognac. “ _Une femme formidable_ as the French say. I am sorry to distress you in this fashion, Mrs. Fitzwilliam, but these gentlemen have some questions about what you saw. Despite—” looking exasperatedly around the room “—the fact that you told Lord Fitzroy everything. I had hoped very much to spare you this indignity.”

Her courage always rose with every attempt to intimidate her and, bolstered by this shew of concern, not very subtly hidden, Elizabeth managed a half smile, and a gesture to shew she did not mind.

“My fault,” came a cultivated British voice, that seemed somewhat familiar. Elizabeth turned her head slightly to see what Marjorie called a ‘Bond Street beau’ staring in the mirror, adjusting the set of his cravat. “Demmed Foreign Office nonsense, but sometimes in repeating a story, new details come out; or new people notice different things in the same few sentences .”

Elizabeth said, firmly, “I am happy to help however I can. Really, it will not upset me to repeat what I saw. I am not a weak creature; I have been through much worse shocks before, and not been overset. I may safely boast of being one of the few women of English high society who has never fainted in her life!”

This was not much of a joke, but the British contingent laughed nervously. Elizabeth fancied that they were in such need of something to cut the tension, anything said in the cadence of a joke would have got them chuckling. What little was amusing in the joke was crushed in translation, and several dignitaries looked askance at the British, for thinking it amusing the man from the Foreign Office had forced their eyewitness to swear she would not faint before allowing any to question her.

Wellington had his right hand before his mouth, but she could tell, by the expression of his eyes, that it was merely to hide the smile of exasperated fondness that was her usual reward for particularly bad jokes. He cleared his throat, and did not manage to sound entirely businesslike when he asked, “Do you want a chair, my dear?”

Lord March moved a chair in front of the desk. Elizabeth took it, and repeated what she had said to Lord Fitzroy, being purposefully vague on why she found herself in the library, but the gentlemen were all more concerned with when she had been in the library, rather than why, especially as Wellington specifically asked her what time she thought she had opened the window, how long she had been at it before smelling smoke, etc. The man from the Foreign Office, after hearing her story, and some of the initial questions, asked a question Elizabeth did not expect: “You thought you had disturbed a servant and so remained in the curtains, I think you said— why did you think it was a servant?”

Elizabeth had been preparing to make up a reason she had remained in the curtains but was caught off-guard by this. “Why— no one else had any business in the garden at that time of night.”

“But you did not think it was a guest; your mind immediately supplied it was a servant. Why?”

“Because—” Elizabeth searched her memory. She had been sure it was a servant— “oh! Because of the footsteps. I heard boots on gravel, or what I thought was boots on gravel— and all the gentlemen here would be in dancing shoes.”

“Hm,” said the man from the Foreign Office. “There’s something in that.” He bent to speak to his servant, who vanished. The assembled company questioned her very closely about the footsteps, and anything she saw, but as this did not change, and the men ran out of different ways to ask the same questions, Wellington put a halt to the interrogation.

“Gentlemen,” said Wellington, taking out his pocket watch, “it is nearly time for supper. As disaster has been averted, and there is nothing more to be done, I think we had better go eat. I shall follow presently; I put it out that I meant to put my sons to bed myself, when leaving the ballroom, and I should not like to prove myself a liar before so exalted a company. All that remains to us is to thank Mrs. Fitzwilliam for spotting the smoke and for bearing up with our questioning.” A shade of warmth, the particular, slightly crooked half-smile Elizabeth had come to think of as her exclusive property, made his, “Thank you, Mrs. Fitzwilliam,” as comforting as another draught of cognac. But, perhaps fearing to have betrayed his partiality, he added on a dry, “I daresay we wouldn’t all be here without you.”

Elizabeth, cheered by this, rose to go as well, but Lord Fitzroy signaled at her to remain. She sat back down. She shot a confused look at Wellington, who was talking with the man from the Foreign Office.

“Pardon me, Lord Pumphrey,” said Wellington, when he noticed Elizabeth was looking at him. Elizabeth directed her gaze and therefore Wellington’s, to Lord Fitzroy, who was closing and locking the door.

Wellington closed his pocket watch with a decided click. “Fitzroy, what else can you have to ask Mrs. Fitzwilliam?”

Lord Fitzroy looked awkward and coughed into his left first. “Well, it… uh….”

“He has nothing to ask,” interrupted Lord Pumphrey, pleasantly, “but I do. Mrs. Fitzwilliam, who was in the library with you?”

It was as if the chair had been kicked out from under her. Elizabeth clutched at her seat, reassuring herself that it was still there. “I— I — Lord Pumphrey, that is a very improper—”

“The only thing that matters,” said Wellington, icily, “is when Mrs. Fitzwilliam smelled smoke, and what she might have seen or heard when she startled our assassin. This she told to us, as exactly as she could. What the devil do you mean by this, Pumps, questioning a respectable widow, a _Fitzwilliam_ , no less, on such a subject?”

“I mean to find out who tried to murder us all, Your Grace,” he replied, tweaking straight the fall of Mechlin lace at the ends of his sleeves. “Mrs. Fitzwilliam— well I suppose you are not up to standing at present, you look devilish pale, but Lord Fitzroy, if you would be so good…?”

Lord Fitzroy went over to the spot Elizabeth had earlier indicated. The book she had been pretending to read was still pulled out from its fellows. Elizabeth stared at it in utter mortification. “The curtain to the nearest window is closed,” said Lord Fitzroy, slowly turning, to take in what might be seen from that exact spot, “and one could not see out any of the other windows… and the window Mrs. Fitzwilliam opened was at the opposite end of the room.” He turned to Elizabeth. “And you were by the shelf, reading this book, the whole time?”

“I was by the shelf,” Elizabeth managed to get out. “I went to the mirror once to touch up my hair, and then to the window to let air into the room, and I swear to you, that is _all._ ”

“I know it is distressing,” said Lord Fitzroy, with a half-impatient attempt at kindness, “but Mrs. Fitzwilliam, even if you saw nothing—”

“Drop it, Fitzroy,” said Wellington, quellingly.

“Forgive me, uncle, but I cannot. We have no other leads.” He turned back to Elizabeth and said, coaxingly, “Mrs. Fitzwilliam, I do not suspect you of meeting anyone that could plan harm to the assembled company.”

Lord Pumphrey added, “We merely need to know if the man in question saw anything you did not. I am assuming it is a man; you always struck me as the sort of woman made to be doted upon by some wealthy gentleman or other.”

Elizabeth looked at Wellington, mortified, but entirely unable to think up a response.

“Fitzroy, I believe I told you to drop this,” said Wellington, sharply. “Lord Pumphrey, I don’t know how the Foreign Office operates these days but if your toolkit now includes badgering innocent widows like this—”

Lord Pumphrey raised his eyebrows. “My toolkit in Spain and Portugal included much worse. You might wish to ask your brother Henry—” Henry Wellesley being the British Ambassador to Spain “—for details, if your own memory proves faulty.” Before Wellington could retort, Lord Pumphrey said to Elizabeth, “Come now, we’re all men and women of the world. A pretty young widow having a lover is hardly the most shocking piece of news I’ve ever encountered. I’d be more shocked if you _didn’t_ have one, my dear.”

Lord Fitzroy looked at Lord Pumphrey in some exasperation, and took a kinder approach. He offered Elizabeth his flask and said, kindly, coaxingly, “There is no need to protect your lover like this, Mrs. Fitzwilliam. None of us will betray your confidence, except to go to the gentleman and ask what he saw.” Elizabeth shook her head, to turn down the offer of brandy, but Lord Fitzroy took this for intransigence and continued on, “We would not press so if it was not essential we know who to ask—”

Wellington said, in the tones of authoritative command, “There is no reason for either of you to doubt Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s account, but I can see you’ve the bit between your teeth and are determined to make a wild leap. If indeed Mrs. Fitzwilliam was meeting someone and it was for the reason you both have insinuated, I hardly think the other person in question would have noticed anything but Mrs. Fitzwilliam. I fancy I have had more experience than you do in the sort of situation you expect to have happened, Fitzroy. Pumps, I doubt you have ever even been in such a situation.”

“Parallel cases, to be sure,” said Lord Pumphrey. “But in such situations, I always keep my wits about me. It’s too dangerous otherwise. Over half the world still finds my assignations an offense punishable by a very painful death.”

“Let me assure you, then,” said Wellington, in tones that could have caused the Thames to freeze, “that in the particular case which we are discussing, a man would have to be hit repeatedly over the head by an assassin before he noticed anything but his mistress.”

“How can you state so with such certainty?” Lord Fitzroy asked, exasperated.

Wellington sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and said, “Because I was _there_ , dear boy.”

“Your Grace, parallel situations are not applicable in this case. You just said so yourself—”

“You mistake matters. I am the person Mrs. Fitzwilliam is trying so loyally to protect. I hope you are not accusing me of wishing to blow up my own house?”

“I… what?” Lord Fitzroy looked utterly perplexed.

Lord Pumphrey had been fastidiously adjusting the fit of the fingers on his embroidered gloves, and briefly looked heavenward. “And everyone celebrates you for your defensive maneuvers. _Really_ , Your Grace, I know you were talking to the Duchess of Richmond during the reel, and you danced the cotillion with her daughter Lady Sarah after that. I saw you. Yes, yes, you’re sweet on Mrs. Fitzwilliam, that’s hardly a secret, but one can take gallantry too far— Lord, you Wellesleys are always falling in love with women in love with someone else, aren’t you?”

Elizabeth was sure that her face now matched the color of Wellington’s uniform jacket. She managed to make a few inarticulate sounds of denial and distress.

Wellington removed his gorget and loosened his cravat, pulling from beneath his shirt collar a gold chain, upon which hung what appeared to be a locket roughly two inches high and two inches across. “With your permission, Mrs. Fitz? I realize I ought to have asked before declaring I was in the library with you, but—”

“No, no, it had to be said,” Elizabeth replied, trembling a little with nerves... and relief at not having to confess herself. “Do you still have that? I am surprised you do.”

“My dear, I wore the amulet _Kitty_ got me every day until she served me divorce papers; I would hardly leave off anything you were kind enough to give me. Fitzroy, I think you have long been curious about this. Lord March certainly has been, since I came back with it in February.” Wellington opened it to reveal the miniature of Elizabeth Miss Duncan had painted. Elizabeth liked it more now than she had when she’d first seen it. She was pleased with how she had styled her hair the day of the sitting, and thought that her pleated linen gown and the stormy gray-blue background gave her an air of classical simplicity. Elizabeth still would have prefered to have been painted smiling archly, making eye contact with the viewer, but the expression was intelligent enough, and the inward gaze and smile gave her an appealingly dreamy air.

Lord Fitzroy bent to look at the miniature, then at Elizabeth, then at the miniature again. Comprehension dawned. “Oh.”

“A lot of mysteries have just been solved for you, haven’t they, Fitzroy?” Wellington asked dryly.

Lord Fitzroy colored and spluttered a bit but could not deny it. Lord Pumphrey strode up and took the miniature in hand. “Very pretty work. Not a Cosway, I suppose? No? Well!” He closed it and handed the whole back to Wellington. “It _is_ nice to know that though you are still as much a rake as ever, you have finally learnt how to be discreet. But my, my, Beau Wellesley, the Widow Fitzwilliam! I never thought you would succeed with such a one. Such a good girl! Why, even Caro Lamb thought the only way she’d fall for you would be if she was pushed by her father-in-law.”

Elizabeth said, striving for composure, “Sir— my lords— it would be a very unpleasant thing for it to get out, and particularly for it to get to my father-in-law that I was— that His Grace—”

Lord Pumphrey raised his eyebrows. “My dear, it’s hardly interesting enough for me to wish to turn it into an _on-dit._  A known rake seduced a pretty widow— why, it’s such an old, familiar story I’m bored already. Only good manners keep me from yawning. Indeed, the only surprising aspect of this little affaire du coeur is that you actually gave into the importuning of such a rake as this one. You could do much better than old Nosey here.”

“Do shut up Pumphrey,” said Wellington techily, tucking the miniature back under waistcoat and cravat.

Lord Pumphrey mimed locking his lips and throwing away the key.

“You may rely upon my discretion,” Lord Fitzroy hastened to assure Elizabeth, looking embarrassed. “I, er. Very sorry to have pressed.”

“I would take it as a particular kindness if you let no one else know at all, even Mrs. Somerset,” said Wellington. “Now ask your questions, both of you, before we close this subject definitively.”

As he had previously stated, Wellington had not noticed anything, nor had he ventured near the windows, except to make sure the curtain on the one nearest the bookshelf was closed. He confirmed Elizabeth’s guess as to the time passed, and added to this a testy, “No, I’m not damn fool enough to put down the time and place of my assignations in writing. Assignation leads to assassination easily that way, one finds. There wasn’t anyone planning on my being in the library.”

Lord Pumphrey sighed. “It would have made things so much easier.”

“I have a theory, Your Grace,” said Lord Fitzroy, who was having trouble looking either of them in the eye, “that it is very likely Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s coming to the window startled our assassin into merely dropping his rag into the larder window instead of tossing it. Especially if, as you said, madame, you had some trouble opening it. Will you try again and allow us to time it?”

It took Elizabeth about thirty seconds to open a second window, which Lord Fitzroy rather gloomily decided was enough time for a man to run out of sight.

“My lords, if you are quite done unnecessarily distressing Mrs. Fitzwilliam?” Wellington asked, icily.

Lord Pumphrey waved a dispirited, though beautifully gloved hand. “Go tend to your children, Nosey, you’ve been of no use here.”

Wellington glared at him, but rose, and went over to Elizabeth. “My dear, are you feeling up to the rest of the ball? Would you like me to call for your maid?”

“Would you mind terribly if I came up to say goodnight to the children with you? I should like to be sure they heard nothing of all this. Then I think I might return to the company.” This was agreed to, and, as Lord Pumphrey had drifted out, in a cloud of exquisitely tailored dove-shot silk and violet scent, Elizabeth turned blushingly to Lord Fitzroy. “Sir— I hope you will not despise me for— for what you have learnt this evening—”

“Rather the opposite,” said Lord Fitzroy, meeting her eyes at last. “If you hadn’t been whiling away a few minutes in the library so you would not be seen coming back in with my uncle, we should all be dead. I am merely embarrassed to have put you on the spot, Mrs. Fitzwilliam; pray do not think I am in the least censorious. You may rely upon my not mentioning these circumstances to anyone.” Then, seeing Elizabeth was still embarrassed and a little ashamed, he tried to set her at ease by teasing her a little: “Though I daresay March will try to drag it out of me. We have been wondering why His Grace had got a miniature about his neck... and why he was sweet as a lamb that eats out of your hand when he returned from England, or was about to go there, considering he’s liable to whip you until the bone shows for any infraction in between those times.”

“That’ll do, Fitzroy,” said Wellington, offering his arm to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth made them stop briefly in the supper room, which was still being set up, to liberate some marzipan flowers from their centerpieces. Duoro quite got over his embarrassment at being in his nightclothes in front of her by the sight of the promised marzipan, and he solemnly offered her the rose out of the assortment. He even magnanimously offered his brother and father a pair of violets.

“Very gracious Douro,” said Wellington approvingly, “but they are your flowers, won by your own exertions. I should feel wrong in taking them from you, when you deserve to feast on them all. Just don’t eat the whole bouquet at once or you shall have the stomachache. And clean your teeth before you go to bed.” He mussed Duoro’s hair affectionately; and sitting on the edge of one of the beds, allowed Charles to climb into his lap.

Elizabeth, touched by this scene, and not wanting it to end, mentioned that her father always read to her before she went to sleep, when she had been young; the two boys looked hopefully at their father and Wellington affected a groan. “Humbugged, by God! Fine. Duoro fetch your Aesop’s _Fables._  Pick your favorite and I shall read it to you.”

Wellington read well, and, with one son on his lap and the other edging shyly towards leaning on his shoulder, began to lose the tense set of his shoulders, the stiff military bearing he had displayed during the events of the evening. Elizabeth began to wonder if this domestic scene she had orchestrated was one in which she wished forever to take part. She had always wanted children, and to gain two at so little inconvenience to herself seemed to her one of the unequivocal goods that, earlier that evening, she had thought did not exist. And two _sons,_ no less, which would ease the pressure on her, no matter whether or not she decided to have a child of her own— and Lord Duoro and Lord Charles were such quiet, well-behaved children, who so far liked her methods of entertaining them—

And there was a coziness in this, in passing on a ritual that had always given her such pleasure and comfort, to give pleasure and comfort to new children. She felt her anxiety draining from her, the longer she remained comfortably ensconced in a rocking chair, watching Wellington read to his sons.

‘I could be very happy with this,’ she thought.

“Right,” said Wellington, closing the book and taking out his pocket watch. He held the latter out to Charles. “What time is it, Charles?”

“Bedtime?” he guessed.

Wellington chuckled. “Close enough. I’ll tuck you in. Duoro, I notice you haven’t cleaned your teeth yet.”

Duoro protested through a mouthful of marzipan, but Wellington liked efficiency in all aspects of his life, and his sons, always eager to please him, quickly obeyed him. When they were in the empty hall, Wellington said, thoughtfully, “No idea. None.”

“Still focused on marzipan,” agreed Elizabeth, who was by now fully accustomed to the turn of Wellington’s thought and the abruptness with which he expressed it. She understood he meant that the boys were entirely ignorant of the proposed attack. “I am glad of it; and glad too, that the terrace for the ballroom is on the side of the house, not in the back.”

He affectionately cupped her cheek in the palm of his hand, smoothing the pad of his thumb over her cheekbone. “Sweet girl. This evening has been a trial for you, hasn’t it?”

“I emerged relatively unscathed,” she said, though she was privately very glad when he drew her into his arms, and tucked her head against his shoulder, under his chin. Elizabeth had not known how much she had longed for his embrace until it had been granted her— which struck her as an uncomfortable truth about most of her desires. “But do you think anyone suspects…?”

“No, my dear. And if people press you about it, I think you should put out that you were tired or vexed by something, or saw someone you disliked, and were in the library to regain your temper. An offense worth blushing over for someone of your modesty, but nothing to be really ashamed about.”

Elizabeth pulled back and studied the lines of Wellington’s face, dim in the low candlelight of the hall. She said, slowly, “Your Grace— I am just now recalling— I gave you leave to tell Lord Fitzroy, back in… March, I think? Yet he was very surprised this evening.”

“I considered telling him, my dear,” he said, “but on that same visit I determined it was not worth the risk. I have confided a little in Mrs. Arbuthnot, but she knows mostly of my intentions towards you, not how matters stand currently. I had much rather my intimates all know you as more than my mistress.” Then seeing her look of sudden anxiety and feeling the increased tension with which she held herself, he stroked her cheek and said, in the tones of teasing reassurance he knew calmed her, “I know my dear, I keep guiding you to hedges you’re not ready to jump. You told me from the start that you weren’t over your husband. I am a damn fool to be even mentioning this to you before your year of mourning is up; but I thought it might be a useful bit of information to keep in your pocket in light of the circumstances.” Then, in a tone of dry amusement, “And what with all these unexpected deliveries to my cellars, I daresay I have more than enough to occupy me until you are ready to hear what I should like to say to you.”

 

***

 

At supper Elizabeth attached herself firmly to Mrs. Kirke’s side and left her only to attach herself to Colonel Pascal, who had arrived late. They played a very lazy, oft-ignored game of _vingt-et-un_ more to claim a table at which they could sit than out of any real desire to gamble. They picked a table near the door, so that, after they had gone rapidly through their news, they could watch some of the dancing and make comments on the uniforms and ballgowns passing by.

“I do not understand this fashion for skirts to bell out like that,” said Colonel Pascal, gesturing with his cards. “Perhaps it is a sign I am getting old. I look at new fashions and cannot wrap my head around them.”

“I don’t particularly care for them either,” said Elizabeth. “The gauze overdress I am obviously fond of—”

“And with good reason,” came Lord Pumphrey’s voice. “It is a fashion that suits you admirably, Mrs. Fitzwilliam. One almost thinks you are in lilac because it goes so beautifully with your coloring, nor because you are in half-mourning.”

Elizabeth blushed, but managed to maintain some sense of composure. “Too kind, my lord.”

Colonel Pascal gathered up the cards and began shuffling them with an elegant flick of the wrist. “Lord Pumphrey. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Lord Pumphrey pulled up a chair and joined them, wafting violet scent over the two of them, and dropping his gloves on the tabletop. He offered Colonel Pascal a charming, slow smile. “I want a game, my dear. You know I like them.”

Colonel Pascal colored a little, but dealt him a hand.  

Elizabeth tried to pay more attention to the game, but she was not much of a card player, and Lord Pumphrey flirted so outrageously that Colonel Pascal was too distracted to play well. Lord Pumphrey carried the day. Elizabeth found this terrifically amusing, until Lord Pumphrey turned his attention on her and said, “Mrs. Fitzwilliam, I must confess to being a little surprised you and the dear colonel here are such good friends, given your… shared history, shall we say?”

“You may say,” said Elizabeth, “but I may say, in turn, that our shared history is the reason we are friends.”

Lord Pumphrey raised his eyebrows. “Really, Mrs. Fitzwilliam, you do surprise me.”

“Do I? I thought it fairly well known that I am a Whig, or at least thought it well known that all the Fitzwilliams were; and I knew of my husband’s predilections when I married him. I thought it very flattering when he proposed, considering he had all the world to choose from, not merely half, and he still chose me.”

“Yes… yes,” said Lord Pumphrey musingly. “I had noticed that— all military wives that stick it out tend to be… what’s the phrase? Rather _ride or die,_ if you, good infantryman’s widow that you are, will permit a cavalry phrase. You are very loyal, I think.”

“When someone has earned my loyalty, yes, I suppose so.”

“And in your way, you are daring. Social laws are not sacrosanct for you.”

Elizabeth colored a little, thinking this an allusion to the events in the library.

Lord Pumphrey continued, “I always got the impression you were quite the English rose. You know the type: prettily mannered, prettily dressed, pretty in general; sweet-natured and modest to the point of occasional primness; slight, with a complexion suited to blushes; spirited, though never to the point of being unladylike.”

This was not the worst representation of herself she had seen within the past year, but Elizabeth laughed heartily at this picture.

“Lord Pumphrey,” said Colonel Pascal, terribly amused, “if Mrs. Fitzwilliam is a rose, she is a wild one.”

“True,” she said, “I did grow up wild and muddy, and will return to that state whenever given the opportunity.”

“Did you never hear of how Mrs. Fitzwilliam ended her first campaign? It is my favorite story about her.” Colonel Pascal launched very spiritedly into the story of the time Elizabeth had chased off a French regiment by threatening to blow up a powder cart, during a retreat from Burgos.

Lord Pumphrey’s eyebrows steadily mounted upwards at this retelling.

Colonel Pascal hid a laugh behind the pack of cards. “Come now, Pumphrey, do not tell me you read _Glenarvon,_ and believe Mrs. Foth-whatever was at all drawn from reality.”

“No, I didn’t read it, but I had it summarized to me in every salon I attended for at least the past fortnight. Thank you—” picking up his cards and studying them “—hm. Hit me. I’ll take another.” He studied Elizabeth over his fanned cards and said, “I really should have learnt by now not to underestimate your sex. You are so much more hemmed in. There’s so much more hidden for a woman than a man. So much more your average lady is taught to conceal as merely part and parcel of proper behavior.”

She protested, “Lord Pumphrey—”

“Yes, yes. How chummy are you and Benny here? Are you confidantes? Would you mind me alluding to something a little scandalous before Benny, if it is in the service of someone to whom I know you bear great loyalty?”

“It’s Bénet, not Benny,” corrected Colonel Pascal, automatically.

“I would apologize, but you and I both know I’ll just keep calling you Benny. You correct me too charmingly to ever convince me to stop.”

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow at Colonel Pascal, rather pleased that for once she was not the one flustered by mention of a romantic entanglement. He said, rather primly, “Not a word, Mrs. Fitz.”

“Did I say anything?”

“Your look was rather speaking.”

Elizabeth hesitated a moment and said, “I… I do confide in Colonel Pascal. You may say what you wish.”

“Mrs. Fitzwilliam,” said Lord Pumphrey, turning towards her with a waft of violet scent and a whisper of exquisitely expensive dove-shot silk, “or dear Mrs. Fitz, as I think your intimates call you, I needn’t tell you that your _particularly_ intimate friend, His Grace, the Duke of Wellington, shows a distressingly cavalier regard for attempts on his life.”

“What?” asked Colonel Pascal, frowning.

“I shall fill you in once the official story has been agreed upon,” said Lord Pumphrey, waving this away with an elegant flick of his wrist. “But do you agree, Mrs. Fitzwilliam?”

“The Duke of Wellington cares for social cohesion, my lord,” said Elizabeth. This was something Elizabeth personally valued as well— to the point, she acknowledged, a little ruefully, of having once or twice mistaken having the correct social address with having all proper virtues. “You’ll recall that when news of Napoleon’s crossing into Belgium reached us, he insisted that all officers obliged to ladies finish their dances before reporting to their regiments.”

“But that should not come at the expense of the man himself,” said Lord Pumphrey. “And I have a feeling, my dear—” lowering his voice and leaning over her shoulder as if to look at her hand of cards “—that when Wellington slips past his guard dogs—” gesturing to where several new aides Elizabeth did not yet know by name were gathered “—he is generally with you.”

Elizabeth blushed and stared fixedly at her cards.

“Come now my dear, it’s everywhere known and accepted in London that if one needs the Duke of Wellington or needs to know where he is, one goes to Mrs. Fitzwilliam. I cannot see that changing now you are come to the Continent.”

Elizabeth could not either, especially in light of Wellington’s hinted intentions.

“ _Well_ my dear, I confess that when I first came over it was in the light of asking you to gather information for me. You’ve proved you can keep a secret, and you are well positioned to do so, and I am in particular need of someone who will be Ambassadress to Madame de Staël’s salon, but I am revising my ideas very rapidly. I think I overheard you joking to that great power… something your father said. He called you a portable version of the lines of Torres Vedras, did he not?”

“Yes.”

“Merely to be that,” said Lord Pumphrey. “I want you to be my last line of defense. We have already come a little too close to destabilizing the balance of Europe with the whole divorce fiasco. I am now quite aggravatingly aware that all Europe really _prefers_ to be at war, and is looking to His Grace for an excuse to start up conflicts again. Thankfully Wellington is too canny and cautious a campaigner to give them any cause, so it seems our enemies have decided he might best suit their purposes if he is destroyed literally, rather than metaphorically.”

This take on the state of international politics made Elizabeth feel sick and cold. Waterloo could not be allowed to happen again; and she shuddered at the idea of losing another redcoat she loved… well, liked sincerely and was becoming infatuated with. “What would you have me do, sir?”

“I want you to stick like glue to His Grace. Be on your guard, especially when alone with him, and if you notice anything— men who show up too often, things moved that shouldn’t have been, shadows where you see no bodies— you send a note to me. And, in return, if I send a little note to you, telling you to look for things, or not to go somewhere, you will convince His Grace to follow my advice.”

“I am a dreadful liar,” said Elizabeth uncertainly.

“I don’t need you to lie, my dear,” said Lord Pumphrey. “Just to conceal a very little part of the truth. That is not beyond you. After all, everyone just thinks you are merely a favorite of Wellington’s, do they not?”

Elizabeth blushed.

“Don’t let him talk you into anything you are not prepared for,” said Colonel Pascal, in the authoritative tones Elizabeth was sure he used while operating.

“I do not think I could keep what I was doing from His Grace,” said Elizabeth, uncertainly.

“I have no desire for you too, nor for you to hide any note I send to you. Indeed, so long as you consign my notes to the fire afterwards, I have no objection to your showing them to His Grace. I shall teach you what to look for and what to listen for, if that is of concern.”

The dance ended. Elizabeth looked rather fixedly in the direction of the ballroom and was happy to see Marjorie. Marjorie politely excused herself from her partner and came over with a sprightly, “I am quite out of breath from dancing. Will you deal me a hand?”

Colonel Pascal did, as Elizabeth looked speakingly at Lord Pumphrey.

“By all means, tell Lady Stornoway,” said Lord Pumphrey, with an attitude of weary resignation. “No decision by any Whig is ever made without her involvement in some way or other. I was forgetting.”

Marjorie raised her eyebrows but, as she had taken a seat next to Elizabeth, merely leaned over so that Elizabeth could better cup her hands about Marjorie’s ear and fill her in on all that had passed.

“Hm,” said Marjorie, frowning at her cards. “I take Lord Pumphrey’s point.”

“But do you think…?” Elizabeth trailed off, unsure how to end the sentence.

“I think,” said Marjorie slowly, still organizing her ideas, “that it is the best way to work with the situation, given what we know. But should you take my sister here on, as some kind of an agent, I should ask one thing on her account that I know she will not.”

“Yes?”

“If matters are as they have been described to me,” said Marjorie, studying her cards, “I want my sister in official records as attached to the Foreign Office. I want the weight of the government behind her.”

Colonel Pascal made a faint noise of distress. “But to put yourself in yet more danger than you would be otherwise, unprepared—”

“Hush now,” said Marjorie. “It’s up to Lizzy.”

“And is what Lady Stornoway described what _you_ want, Mrs. Fitzwilliam?” Lord Pumphrey asked, raising his eyebrows.

Elizabeth considered this. What did she want? All was tangled and murky, all was complicated. She longed for the simplicity, for the purity of feeling she’d been able to hold onto at twenty, where her own desires were easily recognized and easily realized. Elizabeth reminded herself that at that point she hadn’t _entirely_ recognized all her desires— she would have thrown herself off a balcony before asking Colonel Fitzwilliam to treat her roughly when performing his conjugal duties— and that they seemed simple only because she’d known so little of herself and the world. “I don’t want anything like Waterloo to happen again,” she said, slowly, for this she had known to be true for nearly a year. “I am willing to do what is necessary towards that end. Though I should not like to go into it blind, or unsupported.”

“A reasonable desire,” said Lord Pumphrey. “Benny, will you cease looking as if I flung a kitten into the fire if I promise you I will train Mrs. Fitzwilliam myself?”

“Yes,” said Colonel Pascal. “As long as you do not require her to lie, I have no doubts as to my friend’s competence or abilities.”

Lord Pumphery smiled. “I will call on you tomorrow afternoon, Mrs. Fitzwilliam. Then the work begins.”


	11. In which Mrs. Fitzwilliam engages in espionage

Elizabeth was dismayed to learn that the espionage work expected of her was so elementary as to be common sense. It was mostly a matter of noticing slightly different things than before, or asking more leading questions in conversation, and writing down what she observed in letters very much like the ones she already wrote to her extensive network of correspondents— only she addressed her letters to no one, did not end with her love or her signature, and handed the letters straight to Lord Pumphrey instead of mailing them. She had been in situations of considerably more danger while on campaign; and expected to conceal what she thought and felt even moreso at Matlock House. The lessons Lord Pumphrey promised weren’t very difficult either; indeed, in order to make them more interesting for herself, Elizabeth would pretend to misunderstand the objective of the exercises, and leap to wild conclusions.

“That’s not how this works,” Lord Pumphrey said, exasperated, when she argued, with great assurance, about the contents of the note Lord Pumphrey had asked her to watch a footman receive and then hide. “Your role is one purely of observation, Mrs. Fitzwilliam.”

“But—”

“What is of use to me,” said Lord Pumphrey, “is not what you think the note might be, but that the note exists. _Where_ does the note exist? And can you keep an eye on it while someone is purposefully distracting you— like now?”

Elizabeth whipped her head around. The footman looked impassively back at her. When she squinted at the cuffs of his coat, she no longer saw the paper. “Blast. No.”

“You must learn how to stand up before you can run,” said Lord Pumphrey. “Let’s try again. This time, my dear, use your vanity to your advantage. Mark out any mirrors, any reflective surfaces as soon as you come in. You are a pretty thing, very soon coming out of mourning; it shan’t be remarked upon.”

Elizabeth had on a cuff-bracelet of silver, half-mourning’s response to the hinged gold bracelet now in vogue, and let her gaze glance off of it, at what she felt were appropriate intervals, while Lord Pumphrey chattered to her amiably about nothing. When he interrupted himself to ask, “Now, where is the note?” Elizabeth was able to reply, “On the tray, under the tea pot.”

The footman (whom Elizabeth highly suspected was not really a footman) grinned and lifted the teapot, revealing the note.

“Clever,” said Lord Pumphrey. “Consider moving your left hand a bit more as you speak; that way no one will notice just how often you are looking at your bracelet— which reminds me.” He signaled to the footman. “Carter here is going to grab hold of your wrist. Do you know how to break free of him?”

“I suppose I’d scream, first,” said Elizabeth, dubiously.

“Ah,” said Lord Pumphrey, “I see; this is what Benny was worried about. Well, my dear Mrs. Fitz, it’s about time you learnt to defend yourself. Don’t look anxious; I am not requiring you to learn how to load a pistol—“

“I know how to do _that_ ,” said Elizabeth, a little amused. "Colonel Fitzwilliam taught me how to shoot, after the Battle of Vitoria."

“—do you? I suppose I oughtn’t to be surprised. Perhaps I shall require you to carry a pistol with you. But it shall take me a little time to discreetly acquire one you could manage to carry with you without its being obvious... certainly more than a fortnight until you all remove to Cambrai for the anniversary of Waterloo, and I want you to go knowing how to break free of anyone who might try to grab hold of you. Carter?”

Carter took hold of her wrist. Elizabeth tried automatically to pull her hand free and found she could not; she frowned and tried again, with no success.

“The first thing you must do,” said Lord Pumphrey, “is look for weak spots. Where is his grip the weakest?”

“Why— I suppose where his thumb and forefinger meet on my wrist.”

“Very good. There is something of a quickness about you; as long as you do not rush, as you have been, and particularly do not rush headlong off the path in order to amuse yourself, I dare say we shall get along splendidly. Now take a step back, relax your wrist, and rotate it so that your palm is facing the same direction as Carter’s thumb and forefinger. Now, jerk it upwards.”

Elizabeth did so, and was surprised at how instantly she broke free.

“Good. We shall practice that until it feels natural, before moving onto more difficult holds.” She made much quicker progress with this than with her lessons of observation, for these were the newer and more interesting of the two subjects of study. Carter the not-footman bore this all very patiently and even said, in a suspiciously cultivated accent, “Ma’am might find it easy to remember to sing.”

This made no sense to her. “What?”

“Where to place your knee or your fist or elbow if a man won’t let go of you, ma’am,” said Carter and, gesturing at the relevant points, “S-I-N-G. Solar plexus, instep, nose, groin. Hit there and even if you don’t immobilize the fellow, he’ll be in enough pain for you to get away.”

Elizabeth thereafter referred to her lessons with Lord Pumphrey as singing lessons, to the amusement of Wellington and Marjorie, and the exasperation of Colonel Pascal. She had no real cause to use the lessons on how to evade capture, for which she was alternately relieved and exasperated, especially since actual, day-to-day espionage work turned out to be rather dull.

To be attached to the Foreign Office required some product to prove her value; and Lord Pumphrey had returned to his early idea that she ought to be the Ambassadress to Madame de Staël’s salon. Elizabeth went every morning with whoever seemed interested in going with her— Marjorie, Honoria, Mrs. Kirke, the Earl, Colonel Pascal, or the Wellesley-Pole nieces. She would have brought Wellington with her too, but the assassination attempt had caused his schedule to fill up with private meetings and public reassurances on top of all his military obligations. He was hard pressed to find time to take Elizabeth riding in the morning let alone make the social rounds; and in the evenings he had what Elizabeth thought not an unnatural desire to remain at home, where he could have Elizabeth seated at his left at dinners and suppers without it being questioned; where he could honestly discuss politics with and get advice from Lord Matlock, who, no matter his flaws, was an excellent politician; and where he could torment everyone with his unsteady progress on the violin. (Elizabeth occasionally felt moved to apologize to Wellington's household, for only one in three songs attempted by His Grace sounded anything like what the composer had envisioned, but her attempts to accompany him on the piano were only considered better because she still remembered how to fudge and slurr her way through difficult passages.)

At first Elizabeth thought that Wellington's refusals to go out in the evenings would annoy people, but Madame de Staël mentioned about a week into Elizabeth's stay, “How very formal you English are! The Comtesse de Rochejacquelein was telling me that Villaington, he will not accept any invitation out of home until after the twenty-first of June, as you and your family will not be out of mourning until then. Is it the duty of a host to observe the mourning of his guests? Or—” Madame de Staël added with a sly look “— is it because the comtesse’s eldest daughter, Mademoiselle Catherine, somewhat grates upon the great Villainton’s nerves?”

Elizabeth was torn between amusement and admiration of so courteous a stratagem. She was also well aware that Mrs. Marianne Caton Patterson— the woman who had committed the capital offense of being beautiful, dancing with Wellington at the ball, and making him smile, and for which Elizabeth had mentally already (and very unfairly) tried and condemned her— and several other of Paris’s beauties were listening to her conversation. She said, carefully, “It is not generally the custom but my father-in-law is…” she turned to the English Ambassadress, Lady Grenville. “How do you say ‘a high-stickler’ in French, Your Ladyship?”

“Monsieur the Earl of Matlock has very strict notions of propriety,” said Lady Grenville, with a diplomat’s skill. “He holds all his family to the same standards. You see that he keeps to a year and day of mourning for his second son, even though all that was required of him was six months of mourning.”

Elizabeth agreed, “And so out of respect to Lord Matlock’s sensibilities, His Grace has respected that we do not go out to dine and only host— and it is very much according to his notions of gentlemanly behavior that as we cannot go out, he does not either. That way his nieces and aides may still have their share of amusement while we observe our mourning.”

“Hm,” said Madame de Staël, obviously not convinced. “And yet you can visit?”

“It doesn’t make very much sense,” Elizabeth freely admitted. “We can go to a play, but only a tragedy; we can visit during the day, but not in the evenings; we may attend dinners but only if we are hosting them—”

“How peculiarly English,” said Madame de Staël.

Mrs. Patterson leaned over to Elizabeth and said, in her strange, twanging Baltimore accent, “You and His Grace seem very close, Mrs. Fitzwilliam.”

It took Elizabeth a moment to realize a response was required, and by then Lady Honoria, who had come with her, laughed and said, “Oh Lord, don’t tell me _Glenarvon_ has crossed the Atlantic!”

Mrs. Patterson was baffled; though the British guests were hard put to hide their amusement. Elizabeth privately thanked God _Glenarvon_ had not made its ruinous progress to the Americas just yet.

“I consider His Grace a very dear friend,” Elizabeth said hastily, “and am gratified he returns the sentiment. We are old friends, you know, almost comrades in arms. We have known each other since I was first married and Colonel Fitzwilliam brought me to Lisbon.”

“As you are friends, I wonder if you could tell me…” Mrs. Patterson leaned forward again, as a number of ladies tried to eavesdrop on the conversation. “How is Lord Wellington bearing up under the strain of his divorce? Poor man, I do feel for him— we heard in Baltimore that he was tricked by his wife, but had no notion of it until they were at the altar. He was such a gentleman he stood by her, until she found her true match and surprised His Grace with divorce papers, all sudden-like. And then he was gentleman enough to step aside.”

Elizabeth thought this rather unfair to Kitty, whom she still did not like, but liked more than this American, and said, vaguely, “Oh good God, gossip never travels intact across the Atlantic! The Duke and the former Duchess were not a match and discovered it at the altar, that is true enough; and the Duke of Wellington is certainly the first gentleman of Europe; but really, the former Duchess is incapable of tricking anyone. She is too open and honest a person for that, and, in her own way, she did love the Duke. They were both mistaken as to their marks. They did try to be happy together, but found they were happier apart this January. I believe the new Mrs. Jackson and her husband are now settled in Ireland.” She’d heard a rumor that Mrs. Jackson was expecting a child, too, but had not sought to verify it. Elizabeth had few friends in common with Mrs. Jackson, and though she listened whenever Wellington brought up Kitty, she rarely spoke of Kitty to Wellington, as discussing her lover’s ex-wife was not high on her list of favorite conversational topics.

“And is the Duke… happy?” Mrs. Pattinson asked breathily.

Elizabeth thought back to his saying, after she had been upset over _Glenarvon_ , that she made him happier than any other woman with whom he’d kept company. This made her feel pleased enough with herself to be arch. “Well, he has been rather annoyed of late, about the attempt to blow up his house.”

There was a twitter of laughter, and the usual chorus of exclamations about how no one present at the ball had noticed a thing, how they had all only heard about the barrels until they were leaving to go home, or when they had gone home, or when they had risen for breakfast the next day.

“I did wonder if something might have been expected,” said Mrs. Patterson, pensively.

“What do you mean?” Elizabeth asked.

“I coulda sworn I saw soldiers all over Lord Wellington’s house.”

“Why yes,” said Lady Honoria, voice unsteady with amusement, “there _were_ a lot of officers walking about. Their patrolling was really very odd— they seemed to be lining up at attention only to face the ladies and they seemed to have added violin and cello to fife and drum.”

The whole salon laughed. Elizabeth was able to overcome her jealousy in compassion and turn to Mrs. Patterson sympathetically. This lady said, a little stiffly, “I did mean out of doors.”

“I suppose there were quite a lot of soldiers out front. There were too many heads of armies in need of escort, or men of state in need of attendance.”

“And in the back too. I have a little trouble with my lungs—“ she fluttered a hand over an exposed, snowy white bosom, leaving Elizabeth to grouchily wonder if in the United States of America fichus and tucks were as out of fashion as tea and English monarchy “—and I took a turn in the gardens after the waltz. I usually have to go outside for fresher air, after the exertion of dancing. I saw soldiers patrolling there.”

This gave Elizabeth pause.

“During the reel?”

“Why yes, I suppose it was.”

“I hadn’t thought there were any redcoats patrolling the garden,” said Elizabeth.

“Now that you come to mention it, it wasn’t a redcoat,” said Mrs. Patterson, frowning in concentration. “I remember thinking to myself it was a soldier though. Perhaps it was a rifleman, or a guardsman. Those fellas wear darker coats, don’t they? Though I’m sure I don’t know. I hardly keep up with British military affairs.”

Elizabeth thought Mrs. Patterson’s seeing a soldier significant, and could not quite keep from speculating, in her report, that at least one head of state had been aware of the assassination attempt. Lord Pumphrey said to her the next day, when she was trying to pretend she had not already been taught how to pick locks in Spain, “Look, my dear, as far as you are concerned, the only important thing is that Mrs. Patterson told you that she saw a soldier in the garden just after the waltz. We don’t know if it actually was a soldier, or if indeed, she really saw one.”

“I don’t know why she would make up seeing a patrol,” said Elizabeth.

“Don’t you? Mrs. Patterson’s sister-in-law is the embittered ex-wife of Jerome Bonaparte, and the grandfather who raised Mrs. Patterson is the only Catholic to sign that horrid declaration of independence the colonists sent to King George in ‘76. You don’t think someone like that might have been instructed to plant false information?”

“Does that often happen?”

“Oh Lord, all the time. If you were a better liar, I’d have you reporting stories like that to Madame de Stael’s salon. Mrs. Patterson could very well be mentioning the existence of a soldier to throw us off the trail of the servant you thought you saw. But the fact that she mentioned it is interesting in and of itself. Keep an eye out when you are next riding with old Nosey.”

Her off-the-record work seemed to Elizabeth easier and less fruitful. So far, all she had discovered was that Wellington was constantly in demand. She knew who he saw by necessity or custom every day, but could not conceive of any of that number who might try to blow up his house, with everyone inside it; nor could she see in any of the servants or guards who attended Wellington’s visitors, any man who roused immediate suspicion. The attempted assassination was a popular subject of conversation among all she saw, and she was careful to listen to all the speculation among the guests as to who they believed might have done it. It amused Elizabeth to discover that all the men of certain rank or title were sure they had been the object of such an attack. They seemed greatly impressed by the danger they were in, and the number of their enemies, and when Elizabeth deployed the trick— learnt from Marjorie, not Lord Pumphrey— of widening her eyes, looking sympathetic, and saying, in tones of shock, “Oh surely not, sir!” they would expand handsomely on the subject. These reports Elizabeth thought would be of greater interest, but Lord Pumphrey shook his head over them.

“It’s useful in terms of learning of possible personal scandals that will crop up later, but not particularly helpful in terms of answering the question, ‘what booted figure dropped a burning rag into a cellar where he’d thoughtfully put two barrels of oil and one of gunpowder?’” said Lord Pumphrey, idly flicking through Elizabeth’s notes, as she struggled to free herself from the light chokehold Carter had put her in. “Weak points, Mrs. Fitzwilliam. Joints are weak points.”

Elizabeth had been attempting to get at where Carter clasped his hands together, and only exposing more of her neck thereby; she felt a surge of frustration before realizing that elbows were joints, and jamming her chin into Carter’s inner elbow. He made a faint noise of pain and loosened his grip.

“It seems counterintuitive, but grab hold of his elbow now,” said Lord Pumphrey. “Then move your right foot out as if in third position while dancing, and swing out the left— there you are, you’ve broken his hold. Well done. Now put the full weight of your body against his arm. You can either sprain his shoulder or knock him over. Either way you have time to run.” He tossed Elizabeth’s notes aside. “What I chiefly want to know is if any of the people telling you that your sulking in the library saved their lives have complained if their servants or guards are never where they ought to be.”

“Oh yes, I had noticed that now everyone thinks I went there to cry after the Duchess of Richmond reminded me that the last time I danced was with my husband,” said Elizabeth, adjusting the set of her widow’s veil. “I have you to thank for spreading that rumor, I’m sure.”

“There are much worse alternatives I could have circulated,” said Lord Pumphrey, with a significant look.

Elizabeth took the hint and changed the subject. “Why did you say ‘guards’? You didn’t seem inclined to trust Mrs. Patterson’s story.”

“Because, my dear Mrs. Fitz, all you can say with certainty is that you heard someone wearing boots on the gravel. Carter here went out and checked on what footprints we could find— thank God all of Nosey’s servants were too busy panicking indoors to go out— and found a boot print. Too large to be a woman’s. I asked myself, who would be wearing boots besides a servant? A tradesman or a porter making a delivery? A soldier or a guard? The tradesmen and porters were easy to rule out; none arrived after the ball began. We have a statement from Mrs. Patterson to you that she saw a soldier, and, having made myself agreeable to her for the past few days, I cannot think of any reason Mrs. Patterson would lie to you. Not when she has realised her pursuit of old Nosey will go nowhere without you.” Lord Pumphrey smiled slyly. “Ironic, is it not?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Elizabeth said frostily.

Lord Pumphrey, looking as if he enjoying himself, said, “It’s now well known that Wellington is downright tired of being pursued— really, anyone with even a passing knowledge of his character would know he must be the one to pursue— and those who do not believe he is trying to fix his interest with you believe he is hiding behind your skirts. The only way a woman could weasel her way behind his guards is to befriend his guard. Namely, you.”

Elizabeth glanced at Carter.

“Of course we can speak of this before Carter! Who do you think got that information for me? I have never yet met a lady’s maid who didn’t at once make Carter her bosom companion.”

Carter grinned cheekily.

“Now, a few discreet inquiries have determined that Mrs. Patterson is not working for the United States government in any capacity, formal or informal, but I did think that Mrs. Patterson could have been making it up to try and seem more interesting to you. And yet, she has not embellished her story, nor has she changed it. She saw someone she assumed as a soldier, patrolling the gardens. She told me this herself just yesterday, at one of Lady Shelley’s card parties. Now we must ask ourselves— what gave her that impression? Why did she think a soldier, rather than a servant? We know you assumed it was a servant because you heard a noise that could be made only by a man in boots.”

Elizabeth searched her memory. The subsequent conversations with Mrs. Patterson had either been about American society and politics, which Elizabeth found just different enough to be baffling, or Elizabeth glibly ignoring Mrs. Patterson’s delicate inquiries as to the Duke of Wellington’s emotional state. “I really don’t know. She hasn’t recalled anything else. She did notice the man wasn’t in a red coat, but still thought him a soldier. I suppose it was the man’s clothes?”

“But whether it was a coachman’s livery or a guard’s uniform…? We are still out at sea.”

“No one else has mentioned to me any fears prior to the ball, or their needing to have their guards patrol the grounds. They all seem inclined to trust in the Duke’s arrangements.”

“Of course not,” said Lord Pumphrey, looking heavenward. “My dear, you’re not understanding what I’ve been trying to hint to you. You practically live in Wellington’s pocket. Anyone not hoping to secure him herself believes him infatuated with you, and, in both cases they know that to lose your good opinion is to damage themselves with Wellington. No one is going to speak disparagingly to you about him. What they tell you is what they want Wellington to hear. They would not be so cautious before their servants, which is where Carter and some other friends of his come in, or before certain courtesans, or people of non-English nationalities—variety is the key to cultivating informants. No one tells the same thing to everyone— indeed, no one presents the same self to everyone. We all have masks we put on, like Venetian carnivalers.” Seeing he had surprised her a little, he smiled, somehow both slyly and lazily. “Perhaps you see now how I piece together the truth. It’s mosaic work done with pieces supplied by a nest of magpies, all of whom bring me every shiny thing they can seize on. It is my lot to compare all given to me, and to separate tin from silver.”

This resigned Elizabeth a little more to her role, though not by very much.

 

***

 

Three days before the whole household was to remove to Cambrai, for a military review in honor of Waterloo which no one very much wanted to see, Elizabeth found herself once again in the library. Staring out the window did not much help her; it did not spark her memory in any way, or help her sift through the wealth of what seemed to her useless information. She sighed and abandoned her post in search of a book.

The new books out on a table did not appeal; she wanted something familiar and comforting. _Evelina_ it was.

Elizabeth planned to take the novel out into the garden, to lay out on the grass and enjoy the sunlight, but saw Lord Matlock out on the terrace, talking in very rapid French with Honoria, Marjorie, and a number of French lawyers, judges, and politicians. Though Elizabeth was glad to see this, and ordinarily would have gone forward to join in assisting work she had come to find interesting and thought necessary, the lack of progress was frustrating her. She wanted to retreat, for a while, into the contained and familiar universe of a favorite old book; to have a sense of a comprehensible order of things, and happy endings to all problems.

She wandered back into the house in search of an empty room, and instead ran into Wellington, sorting through a stack of letters as he walked into his study. He did not bother to hide his pleasure upon seeing her.

“Mrs. Fitz! Where are you off to, my dear?”

“Nowhere in particular.”

“Come sit a spell with me then, if you are free. I would welcome your company.” He turned to Lord March and handed him a letter. “How’s your French, March?”

“Very formal, Your Grace.”

“Perfect. Write a response to Talleyrand for me, full of every polite phrase you can think of. The only actual information it should contain was that I received his letter. Fitzroy, take these reports to the Ambassador.”

Both aides clicked their heels together and went off. Elizabeth followed Wellington into his study, and sat on a divan before the fire, which had a tea tray set on the table nearest her. There were always tea trays in rooms he was likely to be in; Elizabeth had seen herself that he preferred to shave and dress himself, and his servants, knowing this even better than Elizabeth, had learnt to have ready anything he might have need of, rather than deal with his exasperation when waiting for a servant to perform a task in his presence.

Wellington tossed his handful of letters onto his over-cluttered desk and sighed. “As soon as I put something down on my desk it multiplies.”

“I have been longing to read my novel,” said Elizabeth, pouring out the tea. “Here’s your cup. Deal with your correspondence.”

"I dare not pick up my pen just now. I shall be too honest." Wellington took his tea, and sank into his chair with a groan. “No one ever told me that becoming a Field Marshal would require quite so much tedious work, and spending quite so much time reassuring damned idiots as to their place in the world. Reading, are you? You’ve always struck me as a great reader.”

“I am not a great reader,” admitted Elizabeth. “I wish I was. There are always more books I want to read or feel I ought to read than I end up actually reading. I prefer conversation, most days, and on the rare occasions I do not, or cannot get it, I find myself re-reading _The Aeneid_ or _Evelina_.”

“ _Evelina_?” asked Wellington.

“Are you shocked I am fond of novels? I made you late to an appointment because I wished to buy _Glenarvon;_ this cannot come as much of a surprise.”

“Better novels than poetry,” replied he, smiling. “But no, my dear, I was not shocked at your reading novels; I was merely repeating the name because I rather think I was introduced to the author of _Evelina_ last week. A Madame d'Arbley?”

Elizabeth dropped her novel to the floor. “Madame d’Arbley! Oh sir, you met Madame d’Arbley? Is she here in Paris? No, I should not— but I have asked you for much more embarrassing favors— sir, do you— do you think you might introduce us? But perhaps I should not; I am sure I shall make a fool of myself, talking wildly over novels written twenty years ago and fictional people as if they were some of my oldest acquaintances—“

Wellington looked amused as he replied, “I shall ask Priscilla—” this being his eldest niece, Lady Burgush, who served as his hostess “—to send a card to her to the next musicale or rout or whatever it is she has planned.”

“A musical evening, tomorrow,” Elizabeth said reproachfully.

“Ah, of course. I really don’t know where I’d be without you, my dear. No doubt at entirely the wrong ball, in riding breeches.”

Elizabeth thought this a silly exaggeration, but as it was one flattering to her vanity, she laughed and went over to his desk, to better put her arms about him. Wellington spread his legs and pulled her to him, until her knees butted against the edge of his chair.  

“By the by,” he asked, putting his hands to her waist, “is the door locked?”

“Yes, I locked it behind me when I came in.”

“I know March and Fitzroy are gone, and Lord Burgesh out riding— where is Priscilla? Have you seen her?”

“Talking with the cook about refreshments for the musical evening.” Then, catching onto his line of inquiry, she reported that the Fitzwilliams were on the terrace, engrossed in a discussion that would probably last until dinner; Mrs. Somerset lying down with a sick headache; the Kirkes visiting friends; Lord Stornoway, Miss Duncan, Miss Fairfax the governess, and the Stornoway children at the Louvre; and Lords Duoro and Charles were upstairs working at their times tables with their tutor. “Indeed,” she said, unable to resist the impulse to run her hands through his hair, “we are quite alone.”

“Ha! You keep a very exact reckoning of where everyone is in the house.”

“Lord Pumphrey’s influence, no doubt.”

“Still enjoying your singing lessons?”

“Yes,” said Elizabeth. “I only wish their application was as interesting. But sir, do you really wish me to go into that now?”

Wellington smiled roguishly; the promise of wickedness and imminent pleasure conveyed in his expression made Elizabeth feel slightly light-headed. “Come kiss me, then,” he said, with a sort of gentle arrogance that Elizabeth really wished she did not find as charming as she did. She sank onto his knee and turned her face up to his, hands still in his hair.

“To think,” he said against her lips, between kisses, “it was only in January you blushed and protested when I took you on my lap.”

“I’m still blushing,” protested Elizabeth.

“Sweet girl,” he said affectionately, and drew her closer to kiss her more thoroughly. It did not take long for Elizabeth to begin squirming against him, desperate for more; and though Wellington lightly teased her for her impatience, a very little investigation proved that he was in much the same state. He considered the arms of his chair and, finding them too confining for his purpose, said, “The desk it is. I must admit, this has long been a fantasy of mine.”

“Has it?” Elizabeth asked, rather thrilled.

“This especially,” said Wellington, cheerfully sweeping all letters, papers, reports, and memorandum books to the floor.

Elizabeth laughed as he lifted her up onto the desk; but was surprised when Wellington drew his chair closer and sat down again. She looked at him rather quizzically.

“Surely,” said Wellington, putting a hand to each knee and gently pressing, so that she automatically spread her legs, “Colonel Fitzwilliam performed this particular service for you?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth admitted, blushing, but pulling up skirts none-the-less. “He did, and rather frequently, too. But from... talk... I thought Colonel Fitzwilliam’s willingness was due to his being an unusually devoted husband. I always got the impression that men in general are not fond of this particular act.”

“I am not most men,” he replied, with a kiss to her thigh, above her left garter. He nuzzled the soft skin skin there; Elizabeth bit back an involuntary noise of pleasure. “By God, you are gorgeous.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Especially when you blush. I never thought myself the sort of man who goes weak with love over a blush, but the instant I see the blood rush to your cheeks, I find it impossible to resist you. How do you like this my dear?”

“This particularly? Gentle— at first.” Her color was very high. “Then… well. If you would hold me down as you….”

Wellington squeezed her right knee. “Gentle at first, eh? I daresay I can oblige you.” This he did. It took some time for Elizabeth to get over her self-consciousness enough to really enjoy herself, but he was skillful enough, or merely experienced enough, to take this into account, and at the moment where she could unthinkingly lose herself in pleasure, he paid her such a marked increase of attention she was very nearly brought to completion.

“Well, my dear,” he said, pulling back and looking a little smug. “I wish you’d mentioned you’d liked this before now; I would have taken great pleasure in doing this sooner.”

“Oh you wretch, why did you stop _now_?” Elizabeth demanded breathlessly. “Do you like to hear me beg?”

His response to that was a “Ha!” before pulling at the knot of her fichu. With a patently false air of innocence, Wellington said, “I realized I accidentally denied myself the very great pleasure of seeing your figure before setting myself to my task.”

She impatiently helped pull off her fichu, and tossed her widow’s veil after it. He tugged on the neckline of her gown, until the top of her stays could be seen, and for some time tried to work out if he could lower her stays without having to undo them. Elizabeth burst out laughing and informed him that if stays were to perform their intended office, they had to be made in such a way as to foil his aims.

“Ah well,” said he, and was forced to be contended with lavishing attention to her décolletage. Elizabeth did not find this quite adequate recompense for halting his earlier attentions, and tried everything short of begging to get him to return to what he had been doing. Wellington remained unmoved by these squirmings, her pressing on his shoulders and canting her hips up, and seemed more amused the more frustrated Elizabeth got.

“Something the matter, my love?” he asked her, eyebrows raised.

“Oh you know what it is I want,” she said.

“Do I?”

His pleasure, as Elizabeth was learning, was in the pursuit. Nothing satisfied him more than bringing her very near her peak and then teasingly withdrawing, and repeating this until she was so wild for him she forgot every claim of ladylike reserve or modesty, and could think only of her great need for him. Only then, when she was desperately grabbing onto him, did he at last give her what she begged him for. She colored and said, “Sir, please— I beg you not to tease me; I should like— I very much want—” she could not bring herself to actually name the act, and ended up saying, “Oh sir, I want you, please!”

“You had only to ask,” he said, and holding her down firmly, with a hand on each thigh, brought her off almost at once. She had tended to peak more intensely from this method of lovemaking with Colonel Ftizwilliam, and was not surprised to find this still the case with Wellington; indeed, she had to bite down on the knuckle of her forefinger to keep from crying out.

Wellington withdrew and went to refresh his cup of tea. Elizabeth laid on the desk and flung her forearm over her eyes. She felt hummingly alive, full up of bliss.

“Deshabille suits you, my love,” said he, and by the sound of it, set a cup of tea beside her. “I’ve never seen you more beautiful than when you’ve just been ravished. Makes a man feel rather smug to be one of the very privileged few to see it.”

“And to cause it,” she replied cheekily. “Though, sir, have I _really_ been ravished? Or only half-way so?”

“Drink your tea and we’ll see about the rest.”

The tea was over-brewed and the sugar not adequately stirred in, but she downed it quickly and pulled him to her, twining her arms about him like ivy about an oak tree. She could not conceal her desire, and though she still found it difficult to speak aloud what she wanted, she pressed against him in such a way as to leave no doubt as to what she had in mind.

Wellington flicked her cheek with his forefinger, and said, “Oh my sweet, however did I make it through the day before I met you? You are the delight of my life.”

Elizabeth blushed in confusion, and could think of no response to this but to kiss him and kiss him thoroughly. The faint bitter taste of overbrewed tea distracted her; and she did not realize he had undone his breeches until he was pressed against her. “Oh yes,” Elizabeth murmured, and bore down against him, taking him in. She was still a little sensitive and let out a whimper at the slight pain of being so filled; Wellington stroked her hair, and asked, “What’s the matter, my dear? Are you alright?”

“Just sensitive,” she said. “Give me a moment and it will pass.”

“Lay back, that’ll help.”

He obligingly withdrew so she could manage this, and spent some time leaning over her, pinning her wrists above her head, kissing her, until she was at a stage of impatience where she doubted she could be pained, and struggled against him, trying to convey how badly she wanted him. “Oh _please_ , sir!”

“By the by,” he asked, forcefully pulling her wrists down, so that his hands were on either side of her face, “why is it you always call me ‘sir’ in this moments? If it is your preference I shall naturally oblige you, but—” bending down briefly to kiss her, and pressing his hips teasingly to hers “—I should be very grateful if you would let me call you ‘Lizzy.’”

Elizabeth blinked up at him. “I—why?”

“Why?” Wellington asked, nuzzling the side of her neck. “Because all of your intimates call you ‘Lizzy.’ I think I have the singular honor of a different definition of intimacy than all the rest, but, nonetheless… spread your legs a little wider, my dear— there.”

He eased into her, and Elizabeth let her head fall back. The painful tenderness had passed and though she still felt more sensitive than normal, it made the slow, even pace he set feel more wonderful than she could put into words. “I suppose,” she said, a little dreamily, “this is your way of assailing my defenses. Damn you, Beau Wellesley, for being so bloody good at it. I dare say you could ask me anything while you were making love to me, and I’d agree to it.”

This surprised him. “Dear girl, you call me ‘sir’ as a defense? What on earth for?”

This was not the part of her statement she expected him to seize upon. As he had not paused in his attentions, coherent thought was becoming more difficult. She struggled against his grip; he pressed down. Though her excitement rose and she could not help a small noise of pleasure it did not much help her to explain herself.

“Sweetheart,” he said, looking earnestly at her, “I will never hurt you; I should sooner sail to St. Helena and bring Boney back.”

“I wasn’t accusing you, sir— I—” she managed to free one hand, with the twist and pull Lord Pumphrey had taught her and caressed his cheek. Her tone was breathless but playful as she said, “Sir— I— I don’t suppose you realize that you are a very easy sort of man to fall in love with. Too dashing, too charming by far! And then you must be so kind, I — oh!” Words would not do; she put her hand to the back of his neck and pulled herself up to kiss him, and then to bury her hot face against his shoulder, feeling too vulnerable to joke.

Wellington shifted so that she could put her arms about his neck and cling to him, and pressed kisses and whispered endearments into her disheveled hair. “Would it be so very bad, sweetheart,” he said, “if you did fall in love with me? You must know by now, how I feel about you.”

She trembled against him, from nerves as well as pleasure.

“Don’t overthink it, my love,” he said. “You don’t have to be ashamed of anything you want, my dear, not with me.” He followed this with a demonstration of how good he was at fulfilling her wants, one that Elizabeth found damnably persuasive. She groaned against his shoulder as she reached the height of her pleasure, and felt oddly tearful as she came down from it.

Wellington, once he had recovered himself, carefully eased out of her; but, as she was unwilling to let go of him or move her face from his shoulder, gently scooped her up and carried her to the divan, where they could lay entwined at their ease. He held her now more tenderly, brushing the hair off her hot face. “There now, my love. It’s alright. I don’t know why it is every Englishwoman of good breeding gets taught it’s hell itself to get what you want.”

“Probably to keep us from going after it,” Elizabeth said, in rather a shaking voice.

“Sweetheart, you know it’s all bunk. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

She made a noncommittal noise.

“I am not ashamed of what I feel for you; indeed, I take some pride in it.”

“It’s different for you,” said Elizabeth, still clinging tightly to him. Her voice came out muffled, for she would not raise her face.

“How so?”

“It just is,” said Elizabeth, frustrated, entirely unable to put the feeling into words. “It— I don’t know—”

“Hm,” said Wellington. “Hold on a moment, my dear; let’s get you cleaned up before we have this particular discussion, or all you’ll think about is how blasted uncomfortable you are, and we’ll be sir-ing and Mrs. Fitz-ing each other until doomsday. There’s a water closet attached to the study. Very odd design, I always thought, but useful, now at least.” After cleaning themselves up, and after Elizabeth secured a second cup of lukewarm, bitter tea for herself, Wellington held her secure against his side. “Now, out with it.”

A little mental clarity had returned. Elizabeth held fast to her cup of tea, trying to soak up what little warmth remained through her palms. “It’s different for you, because— because you are divorced. I am widowed. It— it places us in different categories. And I know you lost your soulmate too, I don’t mean to belittle that loss, I know how difficult it is to come back from it, but….”

“My dear,” said Wellington, surprised, “you don’t think you are somehow betraying Colonel Fitzwilliam?”

“Not as we are,” said Elizabeth.

A heartbeat of silence.

Wellington exhaled slowly. “There it is.”

“Sir, I—”

“Come now, my dear, you were good enough to tell me at the beginning of all this that you were not over your husband. This was hardly outside the realm of possibility.”

She began to forget her own pain in compassion for him; Elizabeth turned impulsively to him and said, confusedly, “I do not mean— oh! I hardly know what I mean! It is only that it has not even been a full year of mourning yet, and all the rest of the Fitzwilliams just went on mourning forever, when they lost their soulmates, and I’m such a wretch that not only have I taken on a lover but am talking of how easy it would be to fall in love with him— and how can I? Colonel Fitzwilliam and I were soulmates. He would not have forgotten me so quickly—”

“My dear, you will never forget him, just as I will never forget Ned. We bear them with us always.” Wellington held up his left wrist. “But we cannot go on without anyone to love forever, in their honor. It’s a damned useless sort of remembrance.” But, seeing she was really distressed, he held her tightly against his chest. “It’s the timing of it, isn’t it? Dammit, I am a fool. I tend to find these periods of mourning arbitrary, as you never do truly leave behind the loss, you merely adapt to it, and no amount of time works for everyone. But that year and a day, it means something to you, doesn’t it?”

It was difficult to explain why this was; she got out, somewhat confusedly, the sense of owing it, but not precisely to Colonel Fitzwilliam; of it’s being something expected.

“Ha,” said Wellington.

Elizabeth was a little startled and splashed tea onto the carpet.

“Careful there,” he said, blotting up the spill with a bit of paper scattered from their earlier exertions. “I only just realized— you’re terrified of what people will say, aren’t you?”

"Why— yes," she said, gratefully. "Yes; I do not know why I found it so difficult to pin down, or why I am hung up on that particular detail when I have no hesitation about allowing you so many other liberties."

"As to the first, it is probably because you assumed it goes without saying that you are worried at what society's take on all this. As to the second, I can only speculate that it has something to do with all the damned emphasis we put on names in our society. It means more than just 'this is the name written in the parish register' when you do call a person by their given name."

Elizabeth glanced at her left wrist, the ‘Fitzwilliam’ peeking out from beneath her silver cuff bracelet. "There's something in that. I am sorry. I wish I...."

"I don't want you to force yourself to do anything you're uncomfortable with, for any reason. 'Sir' has worked very well until now; I do not mind it at all." Wellington seemed strangely relieved by their conversation; Elizabeth realized, with a shock, that he had been seriously worried about her hesitations and guards, or at least worried that she would never move past them. “Oh don’t blush, and look self-conscious,” he said, his tone light and affectionate. “Much as I like your blushes, there’s no need for ‘em here. Of course you’d care what society thinks of you! _Glenarvon_ was bad enough. And having to admit to our liaison before Lord Pumphrey and Lord Fitzroy cannot have made you feel very much better.”

“It's that and… there is the drawback to your being quite so charming. Half the women I run into in Paris are imagining themselves the next Duchess of Wellington.”

“That is a problem I can very easily solve for you. I do not mind making it very clear that _I_ do not imagine any of _them_ the next Duchess of Wellington. I am prepared, my dear, to make the great sacrifice of flirting with you in public after the twenty-first.”

“Your Grace is very kind,” said Elizabeth, dryly.

He favored her with the crooked half-smile that he reserved for Elizabeth. “That is one word for it. It does very nobly absolve me of the degree of self-indulgence that went into the formation of such a plan.”

“I wish I did not care so much what other people think,” said Elizabeth, trying to work her way through the confused jumble of emotions in her breast, “but you are right; I am very much afraid… of what my actions say about me as a person, certainly, but what other people will say about them. If only I knew just what people were thinking, I might be a little easier about… everything. I would at least know how to prepare for the onslaught.”

“Well, my dear,” said Wellington, “better and better. You do know that you can use Lord Pumphrey’s lessons for more than just my benefit?”

 

***

 

Elizabeth’s first forays into this sort of intelligence gathering were not too much of a strain, for, thinking upon what Lord Pumphrey had said about letters, and the necessity of using differing sources, her mind turned to her usual networks for gathering information: letters from her friends. These arrived at their lodgings in Cambrai, and Elizabeth, rather low from the anniversary of Quatre Bras, holed herself up in her room to read them.

From Mary Crawford came rather roundabout gossip, from Lord William Russell’s wife, to Mary’s sister, who was married to a canon of Westminster:

_‘There seems to be a French farce around Wellington’s having the Fitzwilliams to stay with him for the summer. My husband asked Matlock about it and was treated to a v. long speech about allies across the aisles, and it is clear that both Lord M and his surviving son Lord S think this visit a great tribute to them and to their RAMC bill. But Mme de Staël laughed at the idea, and some French ladies at her salon told me that it was all bc of the Widow Fitz. The duke is most horribly in love!_

_The Widow Fitz does not appear to have noticed her conquest. She cheerfully reports that they are very old friends. Poor Wellington, is the cry. There are v. many ladies who wld console him if he wld let them, but he appears to be happiest attending Mrs. F, on the offchance she will break the silence btwn them and be her old sparkling self. The popular on-dit from Mme Recamier is that Mrs. F is too full up with grief over her husband to notice how close she is to getting another. Mrs. F is in for a shock once she's out of mourning!_

_I do think the duke cld do better, but_ le coeur veut ce qu'il veut,  _and at least the Widow Fitz is one of us... and far easier to deal with than Kitty!!!'_

Mary also sent a copy of a letter her friend Miss Berry received on the subject, from no less a person than Madame d’Arbley:

_‘I was very curious to see the Widow Fitzwilliam, for half of Paris says the Duke of Wellington is mad for her. I was lucky enough to spot them sitting together at a large-ish musical evening one of the Wellesley-Pole girls was hosting at her uncle’s house off the Champs-Elysee. I at first assumed that a lady who turned out to be Mrs. Marianne Patterson was the Widow Fitzwilliam, for she was the handsomest lady present. But my escort roundly abused me for my stupidity and said that I should know the Widow Fitzwilliam by her mourning clothes and her being so constantly beside the Duke, and pointed her out to me. The Widow Fitzwilliam is rather a little thing, pretty rather than beautiful, with fine eyes and a light, graceful figure; elegantly clad in a draping black spangled muslin gown with a long train and a widow’s veil of Spanish lace as a headdress. She was quiet after dinner— indeed, I saw the Duke pick up a newspaper as soon as he sat down beside her after the gentlemen returned from their port!— but when he talked to her, she always replied to him, and often very amusingly, it seemed, from his reaction, and those closest to them._

_I contrived to have a word or two with her when the tea things were set out. I offered her my condolences on her loss, and talked a little of my own distress at being in Brussels during the battle. To my surprise, her eyes filled with tears, and she thanked me in a very low voice. When she was mistress of herself once more, she begged my pardon, it was only the nearness of the anniversary of Waterloo that made her loss feel so fresh, and we talked about what we had both been doing during the battle. I was amazed to hear the Parliamentary reports had been correct, and she had waded through the mud to Hougoumont with bandages and lint, so soon after the fighting had ended. She was then good enough to praise my novels, especially_ Evelina, _and was all that was light, bright, and sparkling when she was interested enough in me and our conversation to forget her loss. In those moments I could see why Wellington was captivated by her. She herself is warm in Wellington's praise, but who could not be? At least, in her praises, there is a sense of the man himself, rather than merely the Field Marshal, and there are worse foundations for love than friendship, respect, and esteem._

 _I do like her (not merely for so praising my books! I hear my dear Mary's laughter at my vanity) and we military wives must support each other. I think it would be a fine thing if Mrs. Fitzwilliam was to marry Wellington. Heaven knows His Grace deserves some happiness after all he's been through this past year, and_ you  _know that I cannot stop being a writer even when penning letters merely. There is a pleasing sense of resolution in having the greatest military man in Europe pick a woman who, even in an hour's conversation, seems to me to embody all the qualities that characterize the best of military wives— all the constancy, loyalty, fortitude, intelligence, and good humor that we followers of the drum must cultivate to bear up under the strain of doing so. I daresay a number of us would find it outright vindication of our choices and mode of life, if not long overdue recognition._ _'_

Marjorie, too, had volunteered her help and produced two other letters. From a Grenville cousin of her sister-in-law Lady Spencer came a letter from an Embassy staff member:

 _‘It is the rumor here that Wellington wants the Widow Fitzwilliam for his mistress, which, though it carries with it a certain air of authenticity, is probably the most absurd task he could set himself to accomplish if it is true. That he should persuade even a Fitzwilliam-by-marriage to act with impropriety has set Embassy staff to laughing; that it should furthermore be the model of feminine delicacy, as agreed upon by the Commons, has us all in whoops. When I observed them at a state dinner, the Widow was a perfectly charming creature, with manners more playful than correct, which perhaps might have caused a spark of hope in our great Conqueror's breast, but though she teases him, she also laughs off his compliments very determinedly, and sticks so closely to her sister-in-law, Lady Stornoway, or to some friend or other, I wonder if Wellington has even managed to say two words to her unobserved. I daresay he shall have to offer her marriage rather than_ carte blanche _if ever he wishes to even talk with her alone, and even then I am not sure she would accept him! I somehow cannot see the Widow F really bowing to the will of her father-in-law, in such a case. I have not as much imagination as Lady Caroline Lamb. But, having said, this, it is the general opinion here that Wellington could and certainly_ had  _done worse. I get the impression that if the Widow Fitzwilliam did deign to accept him, she would keep him in line, and strictly too. If we can keep Wellington from being blackmailed by low women again, and destabilizing the balance of power thereby, merely by seeing him married to a Fitzwilliam, I'd offer to pay for the wedding license myself!'_

Marjorie's brother Lawrence had received a letter from one of his friends as well:

 _‘I have been spending more evenings than expected with Col. Pascal, who, to the collective astonishment of all our subset of English inverts abroad, has made a confidante of his ex’s wife. He and Mrs. F are so chummy with each other it feels like they are trying to make some kind of point. I thought he might have some good gossip at least about the Duke of W. who was so much with your sister’s family during his divorce, and everyone knows the Widow Fitz, if not the Duke’s mistress, is at the very least the repository of all his most personal secrets. But all Pascal told me was what you already had had from Marjorie. How dull, that both Fitzwilliam ladies should have the same version of events. The only new bit of information was that Mrs F and Mrs Willoughby were not fighting a proxy war. They fought in January because they had always hated each other, and Mrs F was in the raging part of grief, and the Wellingtons were a very convenient excuse for a fight. Ho hum. Looks like old Nosey is hiding behind Mrs. F's skirts after all. I should have liked the truth to be more salacious. But I suppose I have fallen into the stupider thinking of the breeders thereby. An unmarried man and woman are friends. Clearly that means they must not actually be friends, who enjoy each others' company, but secret lovers._ _Did ask Col. P if he thought Mrs. F’s defenses would crumble under so skillful a siege by the Duke of W, but Lord Pumphrey swanned over, determined to be charming, and Pascal stopped paying attention to me. Pumps managed to scoop up Pascal and take him home with him, and despite Pascal saying that it would not happen again, it has happened thrice more._ Quelle scandale _.'_

Elizabeth recalled Lady Melbourne’s words, before she had left for France— “It is most commonly believed that the Duke of Wellington would like to fix his interest with you, however that may be accomplished, but that the Fitzwilliam notions of propriety have thwarted him on one avenue, and the Fitzwilliam notion of One True Matches on the other. He is said to be currently laying siege, to see if there is a weakness in either line of defense. The only fault I have heard you accused of, Mrs. Fitzwilliam, is of cruelly holding out against the poor man, when he deserves a little happiness….”

Elizabeth set the letters down on her vanity and massaged her temples. She should have known that Lady Melbourne would have rightly understood the situation. No matter what they thought of her personally (and good God, how opinions did vary), no one seemed dead set against the match. They all seemed to expect it, and saw immediate benefits from syou a match. From society she would face little opposition, if she chose to marry Wellington. From her family? That was less certain, but when she had ventured to mention this to Marjorie, Marjorie had smiled and said, “Oh my dear, leave the management of Matlock to me. Don’t trouble yourself about it.” Wellington had very nearly confessed he loved her— more than once, even— every look, every gesture, every conversation persuaded her of this— she liked his children, they shared similar circles, she was sure she could do a better job of being his Duchess than Kitty—

—why then, she thought, frustrated with herself, could she not bring herself to call him ‘Arthur’?


	12. In which everyone muddles through the anniversary of Waterloo

Elizabeth was in a Mood the rest of the day and, for the first time, actually quarreled with Wellington. They’d had their disagreements before (indeed, they had very _nearly_ quarreled over rotten boroughs one evening in London, before Wellington declared that he really didn’t care enough about rotten boroughs to spend any more time talking about them), but neither of them had actually been angry with each other; or at least, not angry enough to raise their voices. But, as it was, Elizabeth had been walking home after an unsuccessful attempt to call on her friend Mrs. Kearney, and came across Wellington riding about Cambrai without escort. She was genuinely angry to see him going about so unprotected and told him so.

Perhaps if Wellington had not spent his morning soothing the fragile tempers and yet more fragile egos of the worthies of Cambrai, and spent nearly all his time since the assassination soothing the crotchets of men he thought idiots, he would have remained calm, and seen her anger was born out of worry; but as it was, he was tired of having his actions questioned and replied with cool and rather cutting disdain that riding through two streets in Cambrai was hardly the worst danger he had ever faced. Did she really think him so incapable and useless a fellow as all that? Elizabeth was offended, and though she knew to do so was to exasperate him, replied in a similar tone. By the time they reached the house, they were quarrelling outright and, by mutual, unspoken agreement, detoured into the orchard, so that their raised voices would not alarm the servants or the household.

The argument was a fairly stupid one, over whether or not Wellington should have guards wherever he went, but Elizabeth could sense the fault lines of larger personality differences between the surface. It was the usual division between Tory and Whig; for continuity versus reform. Wellington argued that it was always his habit to ride unescorted about Cambrai and to change it now would cause panic; and, as Field Marshal of England, Generalissmo of Spain, head of the Anglo-Allied Army, etc his duty was to provide a sense of stability through continuity of behavior. Elizabeth argued that he could not do so if he was shot by an assassin, and was it not the mark of a wise man to alter his course of action when his ordinary habits proved insufficient to master them? Was it not the lesser evil to have at least an aide always with him?

“And what good would an aide do against an attack like the one we had two weeks ago?” Wellington asked dryly.

“I was at least of some help there, which I think is a pretty clear argument for the utility of having at least _one_ person watching out for you at all times.”

Quite tetchily he replied, “My girl, do you think to teach me how to defend myself? I’ve been campaigning almost as long as you’ve been alive.”

Elizabeth could not help her flare of anger at being thought too young, too feeble-minded, or too inexperienced to fully understand the situation they now faced. “The Foreign Office seems to share in my thinking.”

He looked heavenward. “Oh good God, now you’re in with the Foreign Office, all their damned nonsense is crammed into your head and comes spilling out—”

“Their nonsense!”

“I could have sworn you once agreed with me. You did in Spain.”

“I agreed that you knew better than the Foreign Office the _proper military strategy_ to defeat the French!”

“And do you not think I now know best how to keep the peace?”

“That’s not what I’m saying—”

“Really, and what are you saying?”

“That I think you’re being a damned fool,” Elizabeth burst out, vexed in the extreme. With that she turned on her heel and stalked off, tearing up with anger—she always cried at any extreme of emotion—and ignoring the confused stablehand coming to get Copenhagen from where Wellington had abandoned him in the drive, went up to her room and claimed to have a sick headache. She pretended to be weeping with pain when Mrs. Pattinson came in. Mrs. Pattinson’s motherly shows of solicitude served only to irritate her further. Elizabeth sent her away, refused to go down to dinner, and spent the evening alone, feeling miserable and ill-used.

Sleep escaped her, for she was too upset to be calm enough to lay down for more than five minutes at a time; and she was still awake around midnight, when there was a knock at the door. Elizabeth supposed Marjorie or Miss Duncan, or possibly even Lady Burgesh had come to check on her, or to bring her a tisane, but opened the door to discover Wellington standing there.

She felt a brief flare of anger—did he really think she would welcome him to her bed after the towering row they’d just had?—but said, “I suppose you’d better come in before you’re seen.” Elizabeth quickly locked the door after him and, not wanting him to see how horrible she looked after an evening of intermittent weeping, went to her vanity, turned her back on him, and began brushing her hair furiously.  

In the mirror she saw Wellington take stock of the room and sit on a chair by the fire, pointedly avoiding the bed. “Don’t keep looking so stormy, my dear. I’ve come to apologize. After our grand breeze this afternoon— I can hardly call it a tempest— I realized today is the anniversary of Quatre Bras.”

Elizabeth tried to set down her hairbrush but somehow fumbled it, so that it fell to the tabletop with a clatter, knocking over her milk of roses cream and a pot of hair pomade. A year ago today Colonel Fitzwilliam had received the wound that would kill him. Elizabeth had not so much forgot about it but deliberately kept herself from thinking about it.

“And,” said Wellington, keeping to his chair, but sitting on the edge of it, in case she should signal she wanted him, “I realize your concern for my security detail springs as much from that, or perhaps more so, than the will of the Foreign Office. I know how much it angers you to be underestimated, or thought incapable. Indeed, I recall thinking, when I was very unfairly accusing you of getting all your ideas from the Foreign Office, that I had badly misstepped and was more-or-less asking for you to lay into me with knives unsheathed. The ideas you arrive at are entirely your own, and ought to be considered in that light. My love—” in a rough caressing tone; as if worry for her had worn away the polished edges of his manner “—I am sorry. I hadn’t realized just how it might make you feel, to have another redcoat you cared for in danger, on this day in particular.”

Elizabeth bowed her head, letting her hair fall forward to shield her face. Tears welled in her eyes; her knuckles pressed white against the skin of her hands. The truth of this was piercingly painful to acknowledge, but by degrees, this faded and she felt her anger leaching from her, as if a wound had been lanced, and the pus drained out. When she felt certain she would not cry, she tried for an 'Arthur' and got only as far as, “Ar—” 

The name felt awkward and somehow wrong on her tongue, and so she evaded with, “Are you so determined to take on the blame when I am equally at fault? I beg your pardon myself. I knew as soon as I started in on scolding you that it was the way to put your back up. You aren’t a fool, not at all; I probably could not name a more reasonable or rational man. I know how carefully you approach any danger. I _know_ you do not act unless you are confident of victory; but… as you said, I have seen how even very clever, very cautious men can be killed from a moment’s inattention. If I had only persuaded the colonel to have his wound looked at a second time….”

She heard Wellington rise and felt his hand upon her shoulder. Elizabeth turned and pressed her cheek to the back of his hand.

“I know,” said Wellington. “It’s hell. And I wasn’t entirely truthful when I said the year and a day rule didn’t mean something to me. In retrospect, I was particularly awful to Kitty this January because I felt Ned’s absence so keenly. It is odd how a year after the loss, the grief turns all to rage.”

They remained like that a moment, quiet; then Elizabeth said, “And this is the most wearing part of the campaign isn’t it? The anticipation of the attack? We haven’t any idea where the enemy is, or who it is. I begin to feel a little sympathy for the French, when they were plagued by the Spanish guerillas.”

“It is. Few people can keep their tempers under such circumstances.”

Elizabeth shifted slightly, so she could press a kiss to his knuckles. He understood this for the final apology it was, and said, gently, “I shall endeavor to have an aide with me in future. I suppose if I toss enough papers at him, no one will be much alarmed.”

He was tender with her after that, strangely gentle— cherishing in a way that reminded Elizabeth a little too much of Colonel Fitzwilliam, and she fell back into calling Wellington ‘sir.’ The next morning she woke feeling still uneasy and unhappy, and discovered that one of her trunks had been left behind in Paris. Though ordinarily she would laugh off the misfortune and make do, she very swiftly realized it was the trunk she had been using to store some of the more vital ingredients for the tissane she drank the morning after she had been intimate, in order to prevent pregnancy. Elizabeth swore loudly.

“What’s the matter, ma’am?” Mrs. Pattinson asked, too used to army life to mind the vulgarity.

“I left a trunk behind,” said Elizabeth grouchily. “It had quite a few things I needed and needed immediately.”

“Can the house not supply them ma’am?”

“I very much doubt it!”

“Can you borrow what you need from Mrs. Kearney?”

This was probably said because Mrs. Kearney was Elizabeth's size, but Elizabeth realized that she’d first got her receipt for the prevention of pregnancy from Mrs. Kirke. Mrs. Kirke would have the necessary ingredients. Elizabeth jammed a cap on over her hair, and walked over to Mrs. Kirke’s lodgings while still tying on her bonnet.

Mrs. Kirke was attending to her correspondence, but put it aside up on seeing Elizabeth. “Hello Mrs. Fitz. Bit early for a call— can I help you with anything?”

“Oh I— I rather need to borrow something from your stillroom.”

Mrs. Kirke agreed at once and after getting down what Elizabeth required paused and said, “I’ve got some sachets ready. Why don’t I heat up some hot water?”

Elizabeth’s face flamed. “Um.”

Mrs. Kirke dipped the kettle into the water bucket and put the kettle on the fender. In a deliberately careless tone of voice, she said, “Helps keeps the cramps manageable, this tissane. I imagine yours were always bad?”

Elizabeth hid her flushed face in her hands. “Oh God. You must think I’m the worst sort of harlot.”

Mrs. Kirke went to the door and, after looking out it to ensure her maids were busy, shut and locked it. “Nonsense,” she said firmly. “If you took up with a man after Colonel Fitzwilliam died, I expect it’s only with the one and that you only did so only after being absolutely convinced it was the right choice to make. I hope you know that Beatrice Robinson Kirke will never betray a confidence given to her, not from a fellow officer’s wife, and especially not from you.”

“Too many people know already,” said Elizabeth, but upon saying this, decided that that, in and of itself, was proof that something needed to change. “But I do owe it to you Beatrice— I… I’ve been… involved with….”

“With the Duke of Wellington, I imagine,” said Mrs. Kirke, going back to the fender. She wrapped her apron about her hand and picked up the kettle, and kept her eyes on it as she continued, “I had wondered.”

“Because of _Glenarvon_ , I suppose,” said Elizabeth bitterly.

“No,” said Mrs. Kirke, calmly, “because I know you.” She poured the hot water into a china cup with a sachet in it and set cup and saucer before Elizabeth. “Two minutes to brew. And don’t look so conscious, my duck; I don’t mean you’ve been indiscreet. I just mean we’ve been friends these, what, four years and more, and we’ve been on campaign together almost that whole time. You get to know a person very well when you face down danger side by side. I know by the way you look at him that you’re in love with Wellington. Puts me in mind of sunflowers, really, the way you’re always turning towards him, and blossoming when he’s near. That sounds stupid now I've said it aloud, but it was a very fine metaphor in my head."

“I’m not—” Elizabeth protested, but floundering when she had to state outright that she was not in love with Wellington.

Mrs. Kirke misunderstood and interrupted, “And knowing you as I do, I know you wouldn’t ever do anything that goes against your notion of right, but that notion of right is your own. And half my acquaintances are on second or third marriages. Cost of being a millitary wife, really.” Then, with a grin, “And you know, I’m rather proud of you! He’s a handsome one, our Atty. I’m not sure I could have turned him down if he’d shown an interest in me.”

Elizabeth smiled despite herself. “Beatrice!”

Mrs. Kirke laughed and pressed on, “Gives me a warm feeling, it does, knowing Atty chose one of our number. Wisest choice he could have made! No one who’s ever followed the drum in Spain would betray him.”

“Thank you,” said Elizabeth. “I’m just recalling my sister-in-law Lady Stornoway made a similar joke. After Wellington’s divorce, she said that Wellington would do well to learn from this disaster that rakishness doesn’t pay, and stick to a discrete friend of his own class.” Somehow the whole story came spilling out, over the tissane, and then over tea. Mrs. Kirke made for an understanding and sympathetic audience, happily stating the cruder facts of the case when Elizabeth blushed and hemmed and hawed over them. Elizabeth was so encouraged by this she found herself confessing to her most recent difficulties.

“Really, I feel so….” Elizabeth gestured vaguely with her empty teacup. “I feel such a wretch. He has not been with anyone else, he has… he has hinted that once my mourning is over he would like to court me outright, and I— well I cannot think of a living man I trust and esteem more. But calling him ‘Arthur’ seems like a hanging offense. I don’t know why.”

“Don’t you?”

“You do? I suspect you of knowing me better than I know myself— quite discouraging really. I have had five and twenty years to study myself and you only four. You are clearly the cleverer of the two of us.”

Mrs. Kirke refilled Elizabeth’s teacup. “Ha, no, no. Every character has some blindness about itself and you, Lizzy, you and your husband were more alike in that than you knew. There were certain… things, feelings, emotions, you know, that you couldn’t bear to acknowledge. So you didn’t. Unless forced. Colonel Kirke used to complain that Colonel Fitzwilliam never could correctly estimate the danger of a situation. Though he always supposed it was because, if he did, Colonel Fitzwilliam could not have accomplished all he did. Fooling himself into thinking something was not as bad as it was let him get on usefully in life.”

“And me?”

“You? Well you’ve a different shade of it, I think. There’s certain feelings you’ve been told aren’t acceptable, so you struggle not just to to speak of ‘em but even to acknowledge 'em. But you always rise to the occasion, Lizzy. You may blush, but you’re talking of ‘em now.”

“That is true. Really, I wish I had told you before now, Beatrice. You have a gift for taking chaos and sorting it out and coming up with a plan of attack.”

“Just the lifetime of following the drum speaking,” said Mrs. Kirke cheerfully. “Anyhow, the way I see it, your not wanting to call him Arthur is a mix of things. It’s because it’s near the anniversary of Waterloo, and because grief gets very suddenly bad at anniversaries, and it’s because it brings up for you the fear of losing someone you love. All your work for the Foreign Office has only convinced you of how much danger Wellington’s in. If you’ve got that last guard up, it won’t hurt as much if you lose him. It’ll also mean accepting something you’re clearly still struggling to see as fine and not shameful, and….” She took a sip of her tea, regarding Elizabeth over her cup, “Forgive me for this one, as I’ve a feeling it’ll hurt you. But you ought to face it— you’re having trouble saying ‘Arthur’ because of all it’ll mean when you do. Calling him by his first name means acknowledging you’re in love with him— that is, in love with someone not your soulmate.”

Elizabeth winced. “That did hurt. A hit, a palpable hit.”

“Told you,” said Mrs. Kirke with a wry smile. “And isn’t this exactly the same thing you went through when you when you were thinking of being his mistress?”

“It’s different,” she said feebly.

“Is it? You’ve been told all your life, especially by your mother, that you’ve got one true match in the world and that is the only person you are supposed to fall in love with and marry. You were anxious for days over just wanting to make love to someone not your match. Falling in love, let alone marrying them? Of course it’s going to send you into a tizzy. It goes against all you were taught to believe since childhood.”

“I cannot deny you are right,” said Elizabeth, reluctantly, “as much as I wish I could.”

"And from what I know of your mother, she's a, uh... her approach to marriage is, er, pragmatic."

"Mercenary."

Mrs. Kirke spread her hands, as if to say, 'You said it, not I.' "I know you like our Atty for himself, but it's hard to deny he's a Duke with more wealth than the Prince Regent."

"That's not saying much. The Prince Regent has very little but his debts these days."

Mrs. Kirke laughed. "You know what I mean. I think some part of you shies away from saying you're in love with him because if you're in love with someone, the obvious thing to do is to marry that person. But to marry our Atty means becoming a Duchess. If your own mother will look at the result of this struggle you've been having with yourself, this huge shift in your thinking, and see nothing more than your managing to secure a rich man to ensure your comfort, or to grab at a title, or at wealth, then what will the rest of the world say?"

Elizabeth admitted to this, and to the comfort she had always taken in knowing that though Colonel Fitzwilliam had come from a rich family, he was not a particularly rich man himself. As they were soulmates, not even her mother could reduce the strength of their attachment to any monetary value. She studied her tea a moment, and said, “But… acknowledging that I am not ready to admit to— to such an intimacy, let alone accept all the consequences, what do I do?”

“Nothing,” said Mrs. Kirke, pragmatically. “It’d be worse to force it. Just tell our Atty that you’re having a rough time of it at present because it’s the anniversary of Waterloo, and he’ll understand. I don’t think he’s been himself recently either.”

“No? That is— he has been a little more irritable than normal, but with the assassination attempt and his schedule, he’s had sufficient provocation.”

“Waterloo changed him, I think,” said Mrs. Kirke, contemplating her own cup of tea. “It's changed most of us. War’s just a job for my husband. And for most officers, really. It ain’t a thing one has a liking or a disliking for, it’s just… something that happens and you do certain things when you’re in it. I think that’s what it used to be for our Atty, but after losing so many men at Waterloo, for such a close run victory, war’s an awful thing and it has to be avoided at all costs. Everyone in Cambrai thought that our Atty took his divorce so hard not because he was in love with the Duchess, but because it would destabilize his position; and if he’s not a fixed point that all Europe can depend upon, it’ll all slide into chaos, and there’ll be war again.”

Elizabeth said, “I find myself in sympathy with him, more than I can say— indeed, the only thing I can think to say is that I’ve paid too high a price for peace to see it shattered.”

There came a knock at the door, and Mrs. Kearney was admitted. Elizabeth was loud in her exclamations of delight, hoping her conversation with Mrs. Kirke had not been heard, and they passed a noisy, happy morning talking and making fun of _Glenarvon_ , and trying out a new receipt for elderberry wine that Mrs. Kirke had got off of Mrs. MacDougal.

The day passed pleasantly enough; but the day after that was the anniversary of Waterloo. Elizabeth felt unhappy and vaguely ill, and skipped breakfast. Marjorie came up to  personally inquire after Elizabeth's health. This questioning was so delicate Elizabeth eventually realized Marjorie was trying to determine if Elizabeth had skipped so many meals recently because she was with child.

“Oh God no,” exclaimed Elizabeth. “There’s very little chance of _that_ , I assure you, and I daresay I shall have definitive proof of that in three days. I am only out of temper.”

Marjorie was unguarded in her relief. “I am sure Wellington would marry you, if such a thing was to happen, he's too much the gentleman not to. But if he didn’t, I did have plans. I don’t want you to think I did not, or that you could have any cause to worry.”

“You did?”

“Oh yes! I think you know how my Aunt Gee—” this being the Duchess of Devonshire, Marjorie’s paternal aunt “—had to go to France to have Charles Grey’s baby only to give it up to his parents. It was really very dreadful for her; indeed, I do not know how she could bear it. I know your temperament. It would be a very serious blow to you, as much as it was to her, to have to give up a child. And since I learnt of the scandal, I have often tried to think over how such unpleasantness could have been avoided, especially in light of recent events.”

Elizabeth was fascinated to see this proof of how Marjorie’s mind worked. She was always mentally calculating possible scenarios, thinking over comparable situations, piecing together plans as one might a patchwork quilt, drawing together all at her disposal to create the most coverage. “I know I have already stated it’s impossibility, but what was your plan if such a thing came to pass?”

“I would pretend to be pregnant myself. It would of course be a very complicated pregnancy where I felt so ill and out of sorts I needed to remove myself to Spa or some other, more out of the way watering place. And of course I would need my favorite sister with me, to cheer me out of my lowness of spirits. You and I would quit London once you couldn’t hide you were with child, and I would pass the child off as my own when we returned, for Julian would not have even thought to question it. That way you could still see your child every day, and it would be well-provided for, and there would be no scandal or stain of bastardry. But thank God we shall not have to come to _that_ ; it was the best plan I could devise but it is not one without pain for all involved.” Then, recovering a little, “I don’t suppose Lord Pumphrey told you anything particularly upsetting?”

“No; in fact he told me recently that as long as Wellington was not so impolitic as to be in Paris for the anniversary of Waterloo, he was relatively sure of his safety, and my work is rather dull at present: it is only—“ Elizabeth felt restless; she picked up a paisley shawl she had rejected as too frivolous to wear and badly folded it “—it is only that the closer the anniversary of Richard’s death, the more it feels as if it has only just happened. I am so angry. Anything sets me off.”

“Wise of you to avoid Matlock, then,” said Marjorie. “He’s become wearisomely patriotic in his guilt. It is rather like being smothered to death by an avalanche of plum puddings and beefsteak.”

Elizabeth would have kept to her room all day if she could have, but her attendance was required at a meaningfully timed military review. It was sheer misery, watching the men form line and square, as they had done a year earlier, and she wanted to scream when all the European officials who had come to celebrate Britain’s military might applauded and laughed and smiled, as if this was merely entertainment, as if real men had not died and died in agony while doing these same maneouvers. It was particularly hard for Elizabeth to be next to the Earl, who was dealing with his grief by monologuing about duty to no one in particular; and the rest of the Fitzwilliams were equally irritating. Lord Stornoway had taken his father's example to heart and was filling his childrens' heads with nonsense about patriotism; Lady Honoria was impatient and critical of the military in ways Elizabeth knew were accurate, but could not stand to hear; and Miss Duncan's attempts to shushing Honoria came off, possibly unintentionally, as a condemnation of expressing one's legitimate anger at anything. Elizabeth occupied herself with Lords Duoro and Charles, who had caught the general mood of the party and were fractious. They wanted only Elizabeth to matter-of-factly narrate all that was going on, thank God, which provided her with some measure of distraction. One could not grow too explosively angry over descriptions of the differences between muskets and rifles. When she and they both grew too fretful, Elizabeth passed them onto Wellington's niece, Mrs. Somerset. Mrs. Somerset was a hypocondriac in the highest degree, and the merest suggestion from Elizabeth caused her to declare that she and both boys needed to return home at once for it was clear they were all feverish. Elizabeth attempted to go with them, but Matlock cornered her and worked out his guilt on her, by babbling incoherently about the duty one owed one's country. 

Despite this, the worst part of the review was seeing Wellington. He seemed utterly unmoved by the anniversary or by bad memories. He was cool and unflappable, so imperturbable atop Copenhagen, so still, he looked as if he had been cast in bronze.

Elizabeth knew from their argument, and Mrs. Kirke’s dissection of it, just what value Wellington placed upon keeping calm and carrying on in the face of threats, but it infuriated her that morning. How could he be so calm when everything felt so wrong? Elizabeth herself had pinned a veil to her bonnet, so that she could hide the fact that she cried and scowled through the whole display. As soon as it was over, she turned to Honoria and Miss Duncan, saying, “Are you riding today?”

“We always do,” said Honoria, a little perplexed. “You’re welcome to come with us of course, but we set a pretty bruising pace.”

“Perfect.”

The months of riding with Wellington had improved her horsemanship, to the point where Elizabeth trusted that even if her horse tried to throw her off, she would be able to keep her seat, and today she gave her horse its head. It was a borrowed filly, one of the pretty white horses of the Camargue, who was clearly interested in one thing and one thing only: speed.

For perhaps the first time Elizabeth understood why some women were horse mad. She herself rode out of necessity rather than pleasure, and rode to hounds only when sitting out would cause more comment than not. It was a social activity rather than a solitary pleasure— but for Honoria and Miss Duncan it was clear that though they might physically ride together, they rode for the individual joy of it, of the private exaltation that came from hard exercise and high speeds. Elizabeth always found it easy to enter into the feelings of those around her and was caught up in the same fierce, interior joy.

Elizabeth fell a little behind as they turned back towards Cambrai, for she could not manage a hedge Honoria and Miss Duncan cleared with ease and she called out that she would ride around and meet them; and she gloried in her sudden freedom. She could see Cambrai stretched before her, and turned and kept it to her right as she galloped on, along the hedge. She, who had always been a worshiper of Athena rather than Diana—for, as independent as she liked for think herself, she valued civilization over nature, and thought man did better within society than outside of it— began to wonder if there was any pleasure greater than to run wild like this. To be alone, to be free of all the expectations and compromise that came from the social contracts of living peaceably with other people— oh it was bliss. Her anxieties and fears were left in the stable yard; they could not keep up with her. About her there was only countryside blurring into an unbroken stream of varigated greens; above her unclouded sky.

When she had reached the state of exertion that melded into exaltation, and returned to the outskirts of town, she saw Wellington, his aides about him in a stately train. He was clearly coming from a meeting at the mayor of Cambrai’s estate and looked oddly hemmed in, as if he were a clockwork automaton, unable to break out of the narrow tracks in which he had been placed. It dawned on Elizabeth that there were reasons aside from Tory reactionism that had made Wellington so set on riding alone. He was a rider, like Honoria, and a skilled one. To be on horseback was not a necessary part of duty, but a freedom. Now there was merely the illusion of freedom, not the reality.

Were there ever moments when he could escape himself, escape the demands of being the Duke of Wellington? Was he ever allowed to run wild? Even when alone with her, he preferred to be in control. Elizabeth reigned in and called, “Your Grace!”

Wellington looked over at her, flushed, muddy, and no doubt smelling strongly of horse lather, and smiled for the first time that day. “Mrs. Fitz, you appear to have lost your escort.”

“Oh yes, will you help me find them?”

Wellington did not need much more of an excuse to part from either his aides or Cambrai, and rode over to join her. Elizabeth suggested they— just the two of them— take the long way back to his home in Cambrai, around the fields surrounding the town.

“Are you the only escort I need, then?” Wellington asked affectionately.

“I am your last line of defense, according to Lord Pumphrey,” said Elizabeth, “and poor Copenhagen was on show all day! I think he’s in need of a good gallop.”

“He is, isn’t he?”

Copenhagen came over close enough to startle Elizabeth’s horse; his aim was Elizabeth’s pocket, for she was in the habit of feeding Copenhagen bread from the breakfast table before each ride, to keep him from kicking out (as he was wont to do) or taking her into dislike. Elizabeth was surprised that she managed to turn her horse’s reaction into the start of a race, and thought, ‘Well! I suppose I am a horsewoman now!’ They raced off through the countryside with every expectation of enjoyment, both aware that there were no known threats that day— the town was full of patrolling guards and heavily armed redcoats— and both aware that Elizabeth was guarding his privacy more than anything else. Wellington had explained to her once that unless he had some time away from people each day he grew irritable in the extreme, and Elizabeth had learnt how to preserve this for him while still remaining nearby.

Wellington grew less stiff the longer they rode. It was a pleasure to watch him on horseback. He had a natural command of his horse and person and a good seat, and it was apparent when he lost himself in the exercise, for he looked so at ease, so natural Elizabeth was reminded that Wellington had begun military life as a cavalry officer. She could not find it in herself to shake her head at this, even with her loyalty to infantry regiments above all, and merely kept an eye on him as they drew near the house. He was in better spirits by the time they dropped from gallop to canter and canter to trot.

“I didn’t mean to take this from you,” said Elizabeth. “I mean, I did not mean to so curtail your freedom by insisting on a guard. I hope you don’t think that I did.”

“I think it was that American fellow, Benjamin Franklin, who said that the social contract is a balance between liberty and security. I know you always fall on the side of liberty, but I must on security. It was necessary to give it up my solitary rides. Ironic you should tell me so, but there it is.”

“You must have a little liberty,” protested Elizabeth. “I cannot think it possible, even for you, to be in control all the time.”

“I can but try,” said Wellington dryly.

They parted to wash before dinner. At dinner, she was at his left as usual, and it became clear to her that the effort of trying to maintain his control, and to fight chaos into order, had exhausted Wellington. His face seemed drawn; there were dark smudges beneath his blue eyes. Only military habit seemed to be keeping him so still and upright; he hardly paid attention to any of the conversations whirling about him, and seemed unaware of his plate or the contents of it. Wellington had been putting on his usual battlefield front for the benefit of his household, and all the officers and men and their wives, and all the foreign dignitaries, and the British holidayers, and all the French Bonapartists looking for an opportunity to rebel— the list seemed endless. Elizabeth realized that his urbanity and calm was something deliberately deployed for the sake of others, rather than something arising from natural feeling; it must have worn him down considerably, to maintain this against a very understandable, and natural inclination to lowness.

After dinner Wellington took his usual chair by the fire and took up a newspaper that he clearly was not reading. She observed him for a moment, feeling her own irritations and anxieties smoothed away in successive waves of tenderness for him, but then decided that the kindest thing she could do for him was to give him a moment's’ respite, a chance to just sit and not perform.

Elizabeth dutifully finished an item or two for the poor basket before taking up _Evelina_ , wrapping the familiar prose about her like an old but favorite shawl. When the others became engrossed in a game of faro (a game Elizabeth was sure Marjorie had proposed to give Wellington and Elizabeth time alone), Elizabeth curled up on the seat, shins pressed against one arm of the chair, the other arm of the chair pressing comfortingly against the small of her back. She balanced her book on her knees.

Wellington folded up his newspaper and looked at her with a sort of weary, unguarded fondness. “It’s been a day, Mrs. Fitz.”

“It has,” she said, holding her place with her forefinger. “It has been a _year_ , really.”

“True enough.” But he did not look away from her, and at length began to look easier. “It was not a year without consolation entirely.”

She agreed to this. “Yes; all told, I am in better spirits today than I thought I would be. I know it is entirely due to you, Your Grace.” The sharp edges of her misery had been dulled by exercise, and the great compassion for him that overwhelmed all other feeling. If someone told her right then and there that the only way Wellington could be happy again would be for her to slay a dragon, she would have cheerfully armed herself at once. “I know all England is glad of you today, if not all Europe, but I am not sure there is anyone else alive who is as glad of you as I am.”

“For what particularly, my dear?”

It seemed to her a good thing to make him think of other things than Waterloo, so she flicked her gaze over him flirtatiously. “I daren’t say in mixed company.”

He cracked a smile. “Minx.”

“I suppose I ought to be a virtuous citizen and say peace in Europe, or a be a good daughter-in-law and begin with the RAMC bill, but the thing that first floated to mind was your convincing me that forgoing all custom of exercise was doing more harm than good. I hate to agree with my mother, especially after you flirted with her so shamelessly to get into her good graces, horrid rake that you are—” Wellington really smiled at that “—but she thinks you the first gentleman in Europe and I am hard pressed to doubt her. There is so much consideration in your actions— towards me particularly but towards everyone, even the least of your men. In all the battles I have observed and even in the ones I have only heard of, you never squandered your men, like Napoleon or his marshals.”

“I couldn’t afford to waste ‘em,” said Wellington, though he was looking more cheerful. “Horse Guards wouldn’t send me replacements. Boney’s levée en masse meant he could get as many men as he needed to throw against his enemy of the day.”

“You won’t convince me, you know,” she said. “I know you think your men remarkably fine fellows and are grieved when you lose them.” This was dangerous territory so she steered it gently to, “And besides, didn’t you tell me yourself you never engaged in battle unless you were confident of winning?”

“I think that probably a tribute more to my pride than my gentlemanlike manner, but by all means, attribute every action of mine to the virtues you most value. I shan’t interrupt you.”

Elizabeth laughed at him. “And do you attribute it to your sense of pride that you have been so good to me?”

“Sense of reason, dear girl. I know you are not impressed with rank or fortune; if I am to convince you to stick with me I have really only myself to offer. I had better be the best version of that self.”

A curious warmth filled her breast; she looked down at her book, blushing, and thought to herself, 'Have a care, Miss Lizzy. You know all it would mean, to be in love with him.' “Whatever the reason, you have made me happier than I ever expected to be after.…” She made a gesture, as if to encompass all Waterloo.

“You are also sadder than I am sure you thought you would be when you were first married. That is in part my fault.”

Elizabeth wrinkled her nose at him. “Unless you deliberately had a French rifleman shoot Colonel Fitzwilliam in the arm, or wafted corrupted air at him, I cannot see how. If you had not been directing the battle, then I suppose Sir Thomas Picton would have and the result would be probably the same— or worse, for then my husband would still be dead, Picton would still be dead, and Napoleon might still be Emperor. And the RAMC would not be established and— a host of other consequences. I don’t think it a useful exercise to indulge in might-have-beens; there is only the reality in which we live and we must bear the consequences as they are, not as we would wish them to be.”

“I did, my dear, order him to Hougoumont.”

“That wasn’t what killed him,” she replied, and could not help the rush of tears to her eyes. It was getting very near the time Elizabeth had decided upon going to Hougoumont herself and she felt more distressed over the memory than she had in some months.

Wellington cast an eye towards the company, and then reached out a little, to rest his hand on her knee. “I know, sweet girl. It’s been a day for you, too.”

She closed her eyes and muttered something about the smoke from the fire.

Wellington squeezed her knee and said, “I’ll attend to it.”

Lord Fitzroy came over a little after that; and after the tea things had been set out, Elizabeth retired for the evening. She was not feeling up to facing anyone else. It was closing in on midnight, and she felt similar stirrings of the dread she had felt last year at this time, when she had left the field hospital to go to Hougoumont. She did, however, have cause to regret impulsively giving the Pattinsons the evening off after she had dressed for dinner.

Now she was up in her room, she was stymied. The evidence of the ‘tween-stairs maid’s passing in the turned down bedsheets, the glowing fire, and the refilled water pitcher, made her wonder if she should ring the bell to ask for the maid’s help undoing the buttons on the back of her gown. Yet the thought of having to face a stranger was unpalatable. Elizabeth sat on the divan before the fire and managed to remove shoes and stockings without difficulty, and her widow’s veil and jewlery likewise.

Removing her dress was impossible.

“Pinned in by fashion,” she muttered, contorting vainly to try and reach the row of jet buttons on the back of her gown. “I’m sure there’s a lesson here. Gillray or Hogarth could use me for something.”

Elizabeth edged backwards towards her dressing mirror, kicking her train out of the way, trying to peer over her shoulder and into the glass, to see where the buttons where. This helped not at all. She strained, she bent, she contorted like an acrobat on the Boulevard du Temple, and yet she remained buttoned. Though this was not the worst problem she had ever faced, she was horrifically put out.

There came a knock at the door.

Feeling unwarrantedly annoyed with everything, Elizabeth called out, “If you can help me with my buttons you can come in, and if not you can go to the devil.”

She belatedly hoped it was not her father-in-law, come to check on her after she quit the company so early, but it was Wellington, in his dressing gown. He came in and locked the door, saying, “I am always pleased to render you any service, my dear, but where on earth is your maid?”

“Out for the evening,” Elizabeth said, trying one last, valiant attack on the buttons.

“Why not ring for another maid? I know you value your independence, but you needn’t dislocate your shoulder in the exercise of it.”

She could reach the bottom buttons well enough, and they were gaping open, but there were three about and above her shoulderblades that evaded every questing fingertip. “Oh pride. I gave the Pattinsons the evening off rather impulsively, just after dressing for dinner. Usually on nights when I put myself to bed, Mrs. Pattinson puts me in a gown I can pull off over my head, and I didn’t want to show myself up to your servants as being utterly helpless without her. But I thought she and Mr. Pattinson might want to be with the rest of the regiment, or what is left of it this evening. Colonel Kirke was really very decent about finding Colonel Fitzwilliam’s men, or most of them, places in his regiment.”

“I think your servants are probably in a tavern somewhere instead,” Wellington said, locking the door to the servant’s corridor as well.

“As I said, with the rest of the regiment.”

Wellington came up to her and placed his hands on her shoulders. She dropped her hands to her sides and looked up at him. He looked down at her with an amused fondness.

“I wasn’t sure you would come this evening,” Elizabeth admitted, impulsively.

“You weren’t?”

“I’m glad you did,” she said, tilting up her face to be kissed. “I wanted you, but I did not wish to add to the list of onerous duties placed upon you today.”

Wellington obliged her with a long and lingering kiss. “Dear girl, you will never get me to agree that making love to you is an onerous duty.” He made quick work of the buttons and slid the gown from her shoulders. The purple silk pooled on the floor. He lightly ran his fingertips up and down her exposed upper arms and said, “I must confess too, my dear.”

“Confess what?”

He bent to kiss her jaw, by her ear, and whispered, “I did not come here this evening with talking in mind.”

“Rogue,” said Elizabeth, happily.

He seized her upper arms and pulled her against him, before kissing her mercilessly. Elizabeth melted into his embrace, feeling any lingering tension drain out of her the longer and closer he held her. It was a profound relief to give all over to him, to have nothing more required of her than to submit to her own pleasure. It was not long until she was struggling a little against his grip, eager to hold him, to be closer to him.

“Now, now,” Wellington murmured, holding her about the waist in such a way that her arms were pinned, but not uncomfortably so. “Just because I do not mean to talk does not mean we must rush.”

“But I want you,” protested Elizabeth, rather impatiently.

Wellington had been lavishing attention on her neck and chuckled. His laugh seemed to go shivering through her and she tilted her head back. “Minx,” he said, dropping a kiss on her collarbone, before releasing her.  “On the bed. Hands and knees, there’s a good girl.”

Elizabeth went eagerly to do so, but paused by the side of the bed, fumbling at the ties of her petticoats.

“Women’s fashion,” Wellington sighed. “Always such a torment. Either it teases with what it reveals, or it conceals in so complicated a way as to baffle the Royal Engineers. What can’t you get yourself?”

She managed to untie her petticoats as he spoke, and let them fall to the floor where she stood, but she always wore long stays in the evening and those always had back closures. “If you just loosen my stays, I can slip out of them.”

Wellington made an absolute mess of the ribbons (Elizabeth was obliged to put new ones in the next day, while enduring a lecture from Mrs. Pattinson about ringing for the ‘tween-stairs maid instead of mucking about with her clothes herself), and grew so frustrated he tore her shift when trying to pull that off at the same time as her stays.

He tossed off his own clothes very carelessly, and took her with a degree of impatience Elizabeth found as flattering as she did exciting. His fingers dug into her hips forcefully—not unpleasantly, but enough to make Elizabeth gasp a little— as he drove into her. She squirmed against his grip, which only caused him to hold her more firmly in place. Instead of submitting, she continued to shift against him, without success.

“Out with it, love,” he said, a little raggedly. “What's wrong? Too rough?”

“No,” she said, trying to fit somewhat incoherent instincts and urges into words. “The angle’s not quite— I'm so nearly there but it’s not—”

“Ah. Easily fixed.” Wellington snaked his arm about her waist and hauled her upright. She was still on her knees, but his chest was against her back and she could rest her head against his shoulder if she wished. Then, thrusting into her, he asked, “Better?”

“Oh _yes_ ,” Elizabeth said, closing her eyes in bliss. It was so easy to give over to sensation when he was holding her like this, tightly enough that she could allow herself to feel as if she could safely fall apart.

Almost lazily Wellington trailed his fingertips over the curve of her stomach and between her legs. She could help a whimper escape her as she arched her back and pressed down against him, aching for more.

“What an impatient creature you are,” he whispered against her neck. His voice was low and rough; his breath stirred the short wisps of hair at the nape of her neck too short to be pinned.

“Terribly,” she got out. It was hard for Elizabeth to be coherent this close to her release. She turned pantingly towards him, briefly pressing her forehead against his cheek, as if in supplication.

Wellington kept her teasingly, teeteringly near the brink. At her faint noise of complaint, he asked innocently, "Do you want something, my dear?"

“Oh you’re a wretch!” She groaned and tried to shift, to get what she needed herself, but his grip tightened and she was frustratingly, wonderfully pressed up against him. “Sir, _please._ ”

She heard the smirk in his voice when he said, “You had only to ask.” He pressed the heel of his hand into her lower abdomen in order to stroke her more forcefully. It was achingly, wonderfully good; and, her hips freed, she could now press back against him, meeting his thrusts. The pressure built maddeningly. “Satisfied now, you minx?”

“Almost—oh yes, _there—_ ”

“I’ve got you, Elizabeth,” he whispered against her neck. The first shivers of pleasure grew stronger. “I need you, darling—I need you to come apart for me— that’s it, love, you feel damned wonderful, let me feel you lose control—”

Her breath caught in her throat as she pushed down against him, wanting to be as close to him as possible, not be to separated so much as a centimeter— he thrust into her deeply, firmly, and she at last convulsed around him.

Pleasure suddenly overwhelmed her, rippling out, and drowning her in sensation. All coherency was lost in waves of euphoria. She felt almost like crying, almost like laughing— she was beyond words. She felt dizzy. Every part of her felt as if it was vibrating. It felt like several good minutes before she stopped feeling a shaking delight radiating through her body, and she was not sure, at first if Wellington had also reached his release or had just paused to stroke the hair out of her face. But he was out of breath, and in the affectionate mood he always fell into after his own release.

“Oh my sweet girl, how I love you,” he said, or something very like, as she continued to tremble against him, panting for breath. Her hair was still up; she hadn’t the chance to do more than take off her veil before he came in, but he stroked back the now slightly sweaty curls at her temple and kissed her there. “I never can deny you anything for long, as a result. Really, my love, you could ask anything of me and I’d give it you, if it was in my power.”

This was gratifying but the intensity of her release had exhausted her; she sagged against his iron grip, limp, sated, utterly relaxed, quite unable to parse his words. She could only think to say, “That was... _well!_ ”

“Only _well_ ,” he said, mock-chidingly. “Really, my dear, you bring me to such heights I bare my heart to you, and you say it was well!”

She laughed at him, not really believing this or his earlier avowals. “You cannot be so good at this and then expect _me_ to have any degree of coherence afterwards. Good _God_ , sir!”

Wellington stroked his hand down to her jaw and turned her face to kiss him. Elizabeth had always enjoyed this particular habit of his, of kissing her back into calm. She felt a great, glowing tenderness filling her, a total absence of tension.  

After her heartbeat had slowed again, he brushed his lips across her cheek before whispering in her ear, “Feel better, Elizabeth?”

Elizabeth made a sleepy noise of agreement. Pleasure still tingled through her, settled sparklingly under her skin; when they pulled carefully apart, she scarcely had the energy to perform her usual ablutions. Indeed, Elizabeth put her head down on the pillow, intending merely to rest until Wellington finished pouring her a glass of water, and was instantly asleep.

She woke in the early morning to find Wellington still awake and eager for her. Elizabeth sleepily obliged, saying she was happy to do so as long as she could remain on her back, and he pinned her down and plunged into her at once. Though she was accustomed to and enjoyed being roughly taken like this, it struck her that Wellington was acting a little oddly. There was a single-minded ferocity to his attentions that usually was not there; his pleasure was just as much in teasing her, and in talking to her as it was in taking her. Now he was silently driving on as if trying to exhaust himself. This puzzled her. Wellington was not the sort of person who pursued oblivion in any form. He liked to have his wits about him at all times, to be in control of himself or any situation in which he found himself.

Then she recalled being told Wellington had been woken around this time last year, to be read the list of the dead.

The candle had given up the ghost and the fire had been banked for the evening; it was difficult to see his expression. Elizabeth reached up and cupped his face in both her hands, murmuring, “My darling— my dear—” before bringing him down for a kiss. “I know,” she whispered against his lips. “I know, it’s alright. Lose control for me. I’ve got you.” To her surprise, this was all it took. He shuddered against her, before nearly collapsing on top of her.

Elizabeth reached out and tucked the pillows behind her back and neck, before wrapping herself around him and holding tight. “Oh my love,” she said softly, as he buried his face against her bare breast.

He clung tightly to her, saying nothing, but every line of his body spoke of an anguish too deep for words.

Her breast felt damp. Elizabeth knew there was nothing to say in the face of this. She felt it too— the crushing weight of memory, the horror of what she had seen. To quietly stroke his hair back from his temple as she held him did not seem enough, could not be enough, to keep the shadow from overwhelming him, from overwhelming them both—but it occurred to her then that though they were certainly compatible lovers, they looked to sex for entirely different things.

He would not be able to find same release from tension through this sort of coupling as Elizabeth did; not when he did not have Elizabeth’s habit of tightly entwining emotional and physical intimacy, and using one to bolster the other and vice versa. It was often to her a reaffirmation of affection, of trust; the relaxation into true self, leaving off all the guards and proprieties one had to put on to be a proper member of society; the reassurance that even the parts of herself of which she was a little ashamed were not just acceptable but loveable; even desirable.

Elizabeth had always gotten the impression that it was not so for Wellington. His emotional needs had been met by Ned Pakenham, or some other close friend and confidante, and he had gone to satisfy his physical needs with courtesans or other ladies of the _ton_ whom he liked well enough, and probably treated with courtesy, but did not really care for. She was the first person who was both friend and lover to him. He could not satisfy one sort of need in pursuit of the other as she did. They were still too separate.

And yet here he was, trying for her, turning to her in such vulnerability as he probably had not shewn to anyone else in years. Wellington lay with his head upon her breast, eyes closed, his breathing uneven. She felt overwhelmed with tenderness over the trust he displayed in this; in his willingness to let fall the public persona he maintained around everyone else, to shew his agitation and upset over Waterloo, in the relative safety of her arms, in the security of her discretion and affection.

It occurred to Elizabeth that they were not, perhaps, seeking very different things after all. They only went at it differently. The urge to protect him suddenly outweighed the urge to protect herself; she felt some last barrier fall away.

“It’s alright, Arthur,” Elizabeth said, stroking back the gray at his temples. “I’ve got you, my love.”


	13. In which Mrs. Fitzwilliam quits her mourning

In the gray of a rainy early morning, cocooned from the outside world by half-drawn bedcurtains, a nest of blankets, and the now familiar comfort of Wellington’s arms, Elizabeth drowsed. She had always loved the particular intimacy of laying like this, a citizenry of two, in a realm bounded by the bedcurtains, a happy nation with a well contented populace. She had not slept much, but her weariness was a contented one; it warmed her, and she gloried in occupying the private kingdom she had built from such enjoyable efforts.

Wellington pulled her closer to his chest in his sleep. He inadvertently got a faceful of hair, and woke spluttering.

“Good morning,” said Elizabeth, amused.

“What o’clock is it?”

“I cannot see at this angle. You shall have to release me a moment.”

He begrudgingly did so; Elizabeth pulled back the curtains to better see the clock on her dressing table. “Half-past five. When is the servants’ bell?”

“Six.” Wellington put his arm about her waist and pulled her coaxingly to him. “A full half-hour before I must leave you.”

“I have been enjoying _not_ having to freeze my way through the corridors,” Elizabeth admitted, sliding easily and comfortably into the still-warm space she had vacated. She tucked herself under his chin, resting her head on his shoulder, and putting an arm about his waist. A sense of coziness settled around her like another blanket.

“I never realized how great a sacrifice you were making for me, ‘til I was the one rising at the servants’ bell. I hate having to leave you to stick myself into a cold and lonely bed in my own quarters.”

“All this complaining, and in summer, too! There I was, braving positively arctic temperatures for you, without complaint, when I particularly hate the cold. _You_ have nice warm corridors and rooms, and temperate weather.”

Wellington said, softly, “My sweet girl, you did love me a little, even then, did you not?”

Elizabeth felt a great rush of affection and said, “Yes.”

He tightened his grip on her, with a heartfelt, “Oh, my love.”

“You can call me Elizabeth, you know. I liked it when you did, earlier.”

“Did you?” He sounded surprised and pleased to hear it. “I thought I had trespassed too far, calling you ‘Elizabeth’ last night. You so neatly avoided having to refuse permission to my unmannerly request to call you ‘Lizzy,’ and there I went galloping hell for leather straight past it to ‘Elizabeth.’”

Elizabeth shifted so that she could look him in the face. There was a smile lurking at the corner of his mouth and Elizabeth could not resist kissing it out of him. “And ‘Elizabeth’ is more intimate than ‘Lizzy’?”

“I always assumed so, for it is how you refer to yourself,” said Wellington, which surprised her a little. She did always think of herself as ‘Elizabeth’ rather than ‘Lizzy.’ She had not realized she did so aloud or in her letters, or that Wellington had paid close enough attention to notice she did so.

“Well, as everyone else is contented with a ‘Lizzy,’ I shall give you exclusive rights to ‘Elizabeth.’ Use your power wisely, sir.”

“Sir?”

“Arthur.” She could not help but say it caressingly, and then stroked his cheek. They had not enough time to do more than kiss before Wellington reluctantly pulled away and began to dress. He tied the belt of his dressing gown and said, with an odd delicacy, “You will forgive the observation, but I think today and certainly tomorrow will be bad for you. Know that you’ve only to say the word, my dear, and I will come to you. Should you like a ride today?”

“Given the rain, I shall keep to my rooms today, but thank you. People never talk of your kindness as they ought, but I see it and honor it.”

“You know it is not precisely kindness that motivates me, here.”

Elizabeth felt an undercurrent of anxiety rise up, to muddy her thinking. “I know but it— it is not yet a year and a day.”

Wellington sat on the edge of the bed, facing her, cupping her cheek in his left hand. “I know, but I did not like to leave you without being certain _you_ knew—” He looked down at her, unguarded and tender, with so much of love in his expression Elizabeth blushed. “I do not offer idly. You occupy pride of place in my affections, Elizabeth. There is none but you; none like you. I thought knowing that might bring you some comfort, or at least make you more inclined to send for me when you are feeling too low to be alone. I know and feel—God bless you!—that it is the same for you.” There was something raw, something perilously unguarded in the way he ran the pad of his thumb over her cheek and said, “I feel I have only to say the word and I could have you at my side at any hour.”

Elizabeth felt too much to be easy speaking; Wellington tried to set her more at ease with a teasing, “Was that reflection very presumptuous?”

“As it is the truth, no,” said Elizabeth, trying for teasing but ending up rather more serious than intended.

“Oh my love,” said Wellington, very soft.

Elizabeth did not know what to say to this; but it felt right to turn her head and kiss the inside of his left wrist. He inhaled sharply at the brush of her lips; his hand trembled. Had anyone kissed his mark before? At the unsteadiness of his breathing, the continued trembling of his hand, Elizabeth thought not.

Poor man, she thought. To have so great, so loving a heart and have none to share it with; to offer it only to be met with disappointment, or betrayal, or premature death. If she could have made up for all those years of pain she would have; would pour affection over him til the bitter was drowned out by the sweet, but she knew not how to go about it, except to continue as she was.

“Elizabeth,” he said, roughly, and there was a world of feeling in the word.

She brushed her lips over the base of his palm, before reluctantly admitting, “The bell will ring soon.”

He kissed her forehead, with a rough, “God bless you,” and left for his own chambers.

Elizabeth tried to fall asleep but fell into a state of strange uncertainty instead. She had crossed a threshold and felt as if she were mentally surveying a new landscape, one glimpsed through windows and open doors, but as of yet unfamiliar and therefore a source of both anxiety and exhilaration. She rose, feeling her stomach twist itself into knots, donned her untouched nightrail, and studied herself in the glass, as she had the morning after she had married Colonel Fitzwilliam.

Would everyone be able to see she had fallen in love again? Could they tell? She felt almost a different person, new and vulnerable, and so terribly obvious— like fresh-bloomed poppies in a wheat field.

Mrs. Pattinson couldn’t tell, at least; all she did was scold Elizabeth for the state of her evening clothes and then go grumbling from the room when Elizabeth declared she would keep to her rooms that morning. Mrs. Pattinson returned within ten minutes however, with a tray crowded with a hot brick, a pot of tea, a slice of cake, and a tincture of Peruvian bark.

“Oh,” said Elizabeth, a little vexed with herself. Despite the fact that her courses came every third week of the month, without fail (unless she was on starvation rations or had been very badly shocked, as she had been after the Battles of Vitoria and Waterloo), she had entirely forgotten she was due. And indeed, it was less uncertainty causing her stomach to twist than cramps. She blamed her forgetfulness, unfairly, on Wellington. Thanks to careful timing and management on her part, they had always been able to avoid meeting during this time of the month before. Now he was as firm a fixture in her bedroom as a closet or the dressing screen, and she saw no reason why she should not have him every evening, she had entirely lost track of time.

But it was the third week and her courses had come. Elizabeth grumbled to herself as she washed and rigged up her usual arrangements of clouts and old petticoats, and then decided to abdicate all responsibility and postpone all hard choices, in favor of eating cake and finishing her re-read of _Evelina._

She felt well enough to go down to dinner, where she was promptly exasperated by all her relations. Lord Matlock and Honoria got into an argument over their unresolved grief and feelings about Colonel Fitzwilliam’s treatment by their family. It took the form of a proxy war about Rousseau’s _Social Contract_ and eventually engulfed the whole table. Wellington, seeing Elizabeth was truly frustrated, deftly staged a rescue by asking her about a violin sonata she had promised to learn. It was a skillfully planned escape route, for Elizabeth could spend her time after dinner at the piano instead of at conversation. Wellington was good enough to aid her in this by mangling his way through the violin part. The children had been brought down to bid everyone good evening, and at the end of the stumbling attempt at the sonata, Wellington lightly tapped Douro on the head with the end of his bow. “Let this be a lesson to you, Douro, to keep at your instrument. Drop it for about twenty years or so and you forget everything you know. Come now, finish up your game and I shall put you to bed.”

Elizabeth retired as well, longing to escape into sleep, but Charles and Douro clung to her skirts. They had caught onto the fact that everyone, including their father, was unhappy, and also that their father was less unhappy when she was near. They would not go to bed unless she read to them. Elizabeth found it easier to give into their pleadings than protest, and read them La Fontaine’s fables with more spirit than accurate French pronunciation. Fortunately, their French was not at a level to make them aware of the paucity of her diphthongs. Wellington leaned in the doorway, arms folded, watching this with a smile.

“Thank Mrs. Fitzwilliam, boys,” said Wellington.

They did so in a chorus and then began elbowing each other. Eventually Charles gave in and said, “Mrs. Fitzwilliam, can I— _may_ I ask you a question?”

“Yes?”

“Julia and Laurie and Spencer— they all— they said that—that—” He looked pleadingly at Douro.

Douro said in a stage whisper, “That you were at Waterloo like Papa.” Charles repeated this in an incoherent rush.

“I was only a few miles from the battle, yes,” said Elizabeth. “I went onto the field after the battle was over to—“ how could it hurt still? She took a deep breath and exhaled it “—to find my husband. That was Julia's Uncle Richard.”

“Was it very bad?”

“Terrible,” said Elizabeth. “It was the worst thing I have ever seen.”

Douro and Charles regarded her very somberly. Wellington moved forward but Elizabeth pressed on, “But I want to assure you that since then, there have been no more battles and your Papa and all of us and all the men and women at the ball a few weeks ago and at the revue yesterday— they are all working very hard to keep another battle like Waterloo from ever happening again. So you needn’t be worried about it.”

The boys held a whispered conference; it was evidently Douro’s turn, for he said, “Mrs. Fitzwilliam?”

“Yes, my lord Douro?” Elizabeth asked, formal enough to be amusing.

“Pierre— he’s the Duc de Nemours's son— he said that at the ball everyone was about to be blown up, only you opened up a window and frightened off the assassin.”

“She did,” confirmed Wellington.

“I did,” said Elizabeth, smiling. “I was able to prevent anything bad from happening. So really, try not to let it worry you. We adults have matters in hand, so that you can focus on your time tables and your cricket scores.”

Neither boy appeared to want to ask the next question, but mumbled enough that Wellington to unfold himself and come forward, saying, “Out with it.”

“Pierre said they picked our house because they wanted to get you, Papa,” burst out Charles.

Elizabeth felt she was far out of her depth. She was sitting on the edge of the bed and felt it dip as Wellington came and sat beside her.

“It is possible they did,” said Wellington calmly, “but I am remarkably tough to kill. Men have been trying it for nearly thirty years and failing at it. And besides, I have Mrs. Fitzwilliam to open windows at the right moments.” This made the boys smile; Wellington mussed Douro’s hair and kissed Charles’s forehead. “Now, no more worrying. Your papa is an old campaigner with a very good set of officers about him. He is prepared for any attack against him. Into bed.”

Wellington seemed a little unsettled as he closed the door. Elizabeth, not liking to think him sitting alone by his own fire, asked if he would come to her than evening before realizing just why she would not be good company. She was blushing her way through an explanation of this before Wellington laughed, kissed her cheek and said, “My dear, I am a little acquainted with human biology; I know what you are getting at. And I must confess to some exhaustion. I should like nothing more than to lay quietly beside you.”

It was the first time they had shared a bed companionably rather than amorously, and Elizabeth found herself relieved that the physical expression of their love did not solely rely on sex. It was enough and more than enough only to hold one another. Wellington was asleep in a matter of minutes and did not wake again until it was time to go. Her sleep was fitful. She was haunted by worries she tried to push firmly away, but one would sting at her while she was dealing with another.

She woke from what felt like a nightmare when Mrs. Pattinson came in with tea, only to realize: no, it is reality; I am a widow and my soulmate died one year ago today. She was utterly unfit for any employment or social intercourse. Elizabeth picked up all the letters that had poured in from concerned family and friends, and put all of them down again without having done anything but open them. It was impossible to say whether or not she was more touched by the receipt of these, or more irritated by the necessity of somehow replying to them. She forced herself to read an elegant note on scented paper from Lord Pumphrey, which thankfully just informed her that it would be wise to remain in Cambrai for the rest of the week. This she threw in the fire before dressing and deciding to walk out.

Elizabeth spent a good few hours rambling about the countryside, breathing deeply of the pure, clear air; taking in the scents of dirt and vegetation rather than smoke, which had, of late, reminded her too much of Hougoumont. At dinner she was somehow both agitated and muddle-headed, too tired from her long, solitary ramble to be active; too anxious at the anniversary to rest. All of Wellington’s party were apprehensive. They watched the Fitzwilliams carefully for signs one of them might explode, but after the histrionics of yesterday, everyone was subdued. Indeed, even Marjorie was distracted and unable to give much conversation; Lord Stornoway was silent and utterly inattentive as he moved a bit of fish from one side of his plate to another; Honoria was so snappish no one dared address her, not even Miss Duncan; and Matlock had reached the end of his ability to justify or explain the necessity of his son’s death and sat in silence.

At the end of the meal, Wellington kindly and quietly offered a toast, before the ladies departed. “To Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam,” he said, raising his glass. “He was the very definition of an officer and a gentleman, and without him, I daresay we would all be saluting Boney’s colors right now.”

There was a brief titter of laughter. Elizabeth tried to smile through her sudden tears.

“He is and shall be profoundly missed,” said Wellington. “To Colonel Fitzwilliam.”

They all drank. Elizabeth swallowed more tears than wine, and to her surprise, Matlock actually began to cry. There was something horrible about it, something that felt terribly wrong about seeing her stoic, very proper father-in-law burying his face in his hands, sobbing. She felt almost ashamed to witness it. Elizabeth made a move to go to him, unsure what she was going to do, but certain she must do something; but Marjorie caught her by the arm and shook her head.

To the shock of everyone, probably even himself, Stornoway went over and put his arm around his father’s shoulders, talking in a low voice. After a moment, Honoria joined him and the three of them quit the dining parlor.

Elizabeth, Marjorie, and Miss Duncan made a tight knot by the fire as soon as the children had been bid goodnight and sent up to bed. The Wellesley-Pole nieces, diplomats to the bottoms of their good hearts, gave them a screen of privacy by playing duets on the pianoforte. There was a comfort to being with each other, as they engaged in whitework, in their idle observations about how difficult it was, at times, to have married into the Fitzwilliam family.

“I remember being in such a quake, coming to Fitzwilliam House the first time,” said Miss Duncan.

“The Countess was awful to you,” said Marjorie. “I was shocked by just how awful.”

“I wasn’t,” said Miss Duncan, bluntly.

“The colonel never really spoke of his mother,” said Elizabeth.

“With good reason,” said Marjorie. “She was… well. She was a very good woman when everyone was acting according to her notion of right. She really couldn’t get on with people when they weren’t. I know she loved Richard and Honoria but she had a bad way of showing it.”

“You were lucky you never met the Countess, Mrs. Fitzwilliam,” opined Miss Duncan. “You might’ve thought Matlock was bad when you first met him, but Lady Matlock… well! She was such a lively, sociable woman, so gracious, you really _felt_ it when she didn’t like you. And she didn’t like me. I’m not sure I opened my mouth once that first time, except to give my name. Colonel Fitzwilliam, bless him, he saw this, went so out of his way to try and make me feel at ease. He made such a point of cutting in with a distraction whenever the Countess, particularly, was about to say something offensive.”

“I always thought it so ironic that the peacemaker of the family was sent into the army,” said Marjorie. There was a tightness about her eyes as she said, “I think I would have gone quite mad if he had not been so often at home. I know very few people who are both kind and intelligent, but he was one of them.”

Elizabeth said nothing; it was hard for her not to cry, and she was behindhand with her work because she could not see through the tears she was trying so desperately not to shed.

All the rest of their party, including the very subdued Earl of Matlock and his two children, entered just as the clock struck nine. Elizabeth’s sewing tumbled from her hands to the floor. She suddenly could not stand to be around so many people and, darting through the French doors into the garden, said, “I cannot— Marjorie, please make my excuses.”

Elizabeth ran so wildly through the garden, her lungs felt as if they would burst and her pulse hammered in her throat. The church bells of Cambrai rang nine-o-clock in an unsteady, overlapping chorus. The peals echoed, rattled about her skull like a cluster head-ache. Nine-o-clock— she had woken at nine-o-clock, burst into the sickroom to see there was no hope—

She collapsed unsteadily onto a stone bench in the rose garden, and began to think she might actually be sick. Elizabeth put her left hand over her mouth. Her wedding ring pressed coldly against her lower lip. She tried to steady her breathing. It seemed essential to pull herself together however she could; Elizabeth clung to the shreds of self-composure and tried to draw the tatters of it about her.

As he had that time last year, Wellington came upon her. He quietly took a seat by her, and when his inquiries were met with only faint and rather incoherent replies, opened his arms to her. In a tone of gentle command, he said, “Come here, Elizabeth.”

This tenderness undid her. Too exhausted to do anything but feel, she fell utterly apart, clinging to his lapels and crying as inconsolably as she had at Colonel Fitzwilliam’s graveside. Wellington did not try to shush her, or try to lie to her that all would be well; he said, in his quiet, pragmatic way, “It’s bloody hell, my dear, and no mistake,” and held her. When she had cried out all the violent emotions that had been jostling in her breast, she sank into a sniffling lethargy. She felt the odd, purged sensation she sometimes experienced after a bloodletting—drained and enervated yes, but there was a curious purity, a stillness in that exhaustion. Wellington soothed and made much of her, as if she had given herself to him, instead of soaked his evening coat with her tears. It was a relief to be taken care of like this, to have safely given herself entirely over to grief and then efficiently brought back from it, into herself.

It occurred to her that she needed this from a partner, this ability to reveal all her negative emotions in safety, and be met with reassurance. She had first loved Colonel Fitzwilliam when he said she was right to be angry, and now… now even in her distress, she felt safe and stable, as if she had been battered by a tempest, but never been in any real danger of drowning. The sensation of being cozily well-cared-for crept in on the edges of her weariness.

Wellington efficiently wiped a last tear off her cheek with the pad of his thumb. “I don’t suppose you have a handkerchief on you.”

“I never do, unless I’m out and have a reticule. No gown has pockets these days.”

Wellington pulled his handkerchief from his breast pocket and handed it to her. “You’ve made it through the first anniversary; you are therefore through the worst, my dear. You survived.”

“I really thought at times,” said Elizabeth, inelegantly blowing her nose, “that my own life was over; at least, life as I knew it. It— I know we have talked of how part of the grief is not just losing your soulmate, but the person you were with them, and the future you had, but it— that was what I was trying to explain last week. A woman, when she marries— why her choice of husband dictates the whole course of her life from that point, for she must live with him and interest herself in his business and run his household and bear his children, if she could. What life, what future had I without him?”

“Ah,” said Wellington. “I had not thought of it in that way— especially since to me you seem to have such a strong sense of self, so many interests, and engagements, and friends. With some women one gets the impression they have no lives outside of their husbands.” She knew he meant Kitty, but hadn’t the energy to fight with him about it. Kitty was not the same sort of woman as Elizabeth was; she had not the instinct or the inclination to ramble about on her own, and be happy in doing so. “When I had to leave you in England, I knew you weren’t pining away in isolation; you were going about, busily tending to your own affairs. On my visits you were only good enough, and gracious enough, to welcome me into the very full, happy life you had created for yourself.”

This heartened her, rather, and Elizabeth said, “Arthur, I am so glad of you. You have made this horrible year so much better than I thought it could be.”

He tilted her chin up. “It’s because I’ve been there, darling; I know the road well.”

She closed her eyes, prepared to be kissed, but to her surprise, he very tenderly brushed his lips over her swollen eyelids, before kissing her forehead. “Elizabeth, it will get better. I promise you that.”

She felt it already had.

 

***

 

The next day, she was in such better spirits, she decided to call on Mrs. Kirke. This good lady was aflutter with nerves at the idea of being a great-aunt; her eldest nice, who was expecting twins, had just sent a note saying she had gone into labor. Elizabeth offered to assist in any way Mrs. Kirke needed, feeling deeply relieved to have an excuse to skip dinner. (She tried not to sound too cheerful about this in her note to Marjorie, and did not succeed.)  

Mrs. Kirke’s niece, a Mrs. Peterson, had married Colonel Kirke’s captain of the light company ten months ago. She was very tired of being pregnant, and was not yet in very much pain, and was, therefore, in tolerable spirits. The midwife was a competent one, an English follower of the drum, very used to delivering babies on battlefields. To deliver one in a bedroom, she joked, was luxury indeed. All there was for Mrs. Kirke and Elizabeth to do was distract Mrs. Peterson with conversation, and to occasionally support her when she took a turn about the room. Elizabeth and Mrs. Kirke spent most of the morning and afternoon in this fashion, leaving Mrs. Peterson only at six, in order to dine with Captain Peterson, Colonel Robinson, the unmarried Miss Robinson, and Colonel Kirke. As the pudding was brought out, a maid burst into the room, declaring it was time. The ladies quit the table at once. Elizabeth mostly went about fetching anything Mrs. Kirke should need, and returned from fetching her friend’s shawl from the dining room to see everyone crying and the midwife cleaning off one very tiny and very irate young gentleman.

“Ah, look at him!” cried Mrs. Kirke, ecstatic. “Why Susie, what a fine lad he is.”

Mrs. Peterson got out that she was very glad of it, but as she had yet to bring forth her second child, her joy was not unalloyed at this news. Indeed, she soon began swearing like the infantry wife she was immediately after this declaration. Mrs. Kirke ceded her place by Mrs. Peterson’s side to Miss Robinson and volunteered to take down the newborn to meet his father, grandfather, and great uncle.

Captain Peterson was in the hall, pacing off his agitation, when Mrs. Kirke made her triumphant progress down the stairs and exclaimed, “Well, now, captain, you’ve a son!”

Captain Peterson promptly fainted.

“Hm,” said Colonel Kirke, appearing in the open door of the parlor, pipe still in his teeth. “Thought Peterson to be of a stronger constitution than that. Hi there Robinson! Your son-in-law’s out cold.”

Colonel Robinson rushed out and was quite torn between inspecting his grandson and his son-in-law, until Mrs. Kirke passed the baby to Elizabeth and said, “Gone distracted the lot of you! Mrs. Fitz, watch the baby, while we three shift the Captain upstairs to the guest room, will you?”

Elizabeth took the baby from Mrs. Kirke, and went into the parlor to sit by the fire, as everyone else bustled about. It was lovely to sit by a nice blaze, in a comfortable chair, with young Master Peterson asleep on her shoulder. Elizabeth had been indifferent as to babies most of her life, for there were always babies about her, either her sisters, or her cousins. It was not until her niece Jenny had been born that she began to notice babies as more than an ordinary part of life, and long for one of her own. That she and the colonel had never had a child was one of her greatest regrets. For a time, the bitter knowledge that she might never have her own children, or hold her own baby had caused her to avoid any child under the age of three, and even now she felt the old pang of jealousy. A sudden wave of longing swept over her. She buried her nose against the baby’s abundant curls, unable to resist the particular sweet scent of newborn.

There was a little commotion outside, and some overawed servants showed the Duke of Wellington and his aide-de-campe, Lord March, into the parlor. The servants all confusedly tried to explain that the master of the house had fainted, the mistress was still abed, bringing forth her second child, and the other members of the household occupied with those two emergencies.

“Congratulations to the household,” said Wellington. “I did come to bring Mrs. Fitzwilliam home, however, before it got too dark.”

Mrs. Kirke appeared, beaming, but a little scattered, and said, “Your Grace! I hope you can spare Mrs. Fitz for the span of ten minutes, while I go back home to fetch my hartshorn, so as to wake my nephew-in-law. The sight of his son quite overpowered him.”

“Of course,” said Wellington, cordially. “March, attend Mrs. Kirke, will you?” He strode over to Elizabeth. “And is this the new Master Peterson?”

“It is,” said Elizabeth, holding out the baby. “A fine boy, don’t you think?”

Wellington’s expression softened; he was very fond of children and often sentimental about babies. He put a finger to one of Master Peterson’s chubby little fists. “What a fine fellow indeed! Has he a name yet?”

“My poor niece is so gone she was trying to name him Peter Peterson,” said Mrs. Kirke, tying on her cloak. “Hopefully when we rouse the captain he’ll have something better to offer.” With that she departed.

“What a strong lad he is already,” Wellington said, testing the strength of young Master Peterson’s grip. Master Peterson sleepily seized his finger and refused to let go.

“Do you recall what Douro was like at this age?” asked Elizabeth.

“Better than I do Charles,” said Wellington, ruefully, “but then again, Kitty and I were still stubbornly sure we could make out well together when little Arthur was born. After Charles… I, at least, realized we should get on much better if we were apart.” The corner of his lip twitched, as Master Peterson resisted Wellington’s attempts to free his finger. “A little Sampson here! I have always liked this stage of childhood. As long as one has a competent nurse, there is nothing easier.”

“Spoken like a man,” said Elizabeth, though it was said fondly.

“You needn’t answer, my dear,” said Wellington, glancing sideways at her, “but I have wondered, ever since you mentioned you had deliberately kept off pregnancy while married to the colonel—do you not want children of your own?”

“Oh, no, quite the opposite—indeed, we were trying, once Napoleon abdicated,” said Elizabeth. “Before then, I thought it too dangerous. And I was only twenty when I married. Too young, really, to be responsible for anyone’s life other than my own.” She shifted her grip on the child and admitted, “I do regret… not the years I followed the drum, but I regret that I did not conceive before Waterloo. I do not like thinking I should never be a mother. Even before Richard died, I wanted a child so badly it felt like a physical ache, not to have one.”

“I think you would be a splendid mother,” said Wellington, “if the way you treat my boys is any indication.”

“Pish and tosh sir, you cannot base all your judgment on how I play with Douro and Charles! Who could not be fond of them? Who could not come off looking well when they are so prettily behaved and attentive? They are remarkably sweet, well-mannered boys. Indeed, they are much better behaved than my sisters and I were at their age.”

Wellington regarded her a moment, with a fond half-smile and said, “You grew up in as large a family as I did, did you not? Though I do not think you were one of six.”

“I am one of five daughters.”

“I have always thought,” said Wellington, after a moment, “it was a pity Douro and Charles have only each other. It is better to grow up with with more than one sibling; and later in life, one relies on them a great deal before one strikes out on one’s own. I have wished, especially of late, that they had more brothers and sisters.”

Elizabeth looked up at him and for a moment could not entirely comprehend the whole of what was being tacitly offered. A sense of dawning hope brought color to her cheeks and she said, uncertainly, “I think five or six children would tax the patience of even the most saintly, but… three, perhaps, or four….”

“Four is a good round number,” said Wellington.

“My family tends towards girls,” said Elizabeth and recognized her mother’s fears rather than her own.

“I should like a little girl or two,” said Wellington. “Nothing so civilizes the little savages boys under twelve tend to be, as a young sister to look after. That was the case for me and Lady Anne.” This being his youngest sibling and only sister.

Elizabeth looked up at him and was momentarily dazzled by the idea of having his child. There was something painfully sweet about the idea, something that settled warmly in the pit of her stomach and made her feel as if she was abuzz with the thrill of it. “Arthur, are you in earnest?”

After glancing at the door, to make sure they were alone, Wellington bent to smooth a ringlet out of Elizabeth’s face. “My sweet girl, of course I am. Large families are not without their difficulties but they are what I know, and they are what I think best equips a person for civilized life. And you know I would always give you anything you wanted, if it was within my power. This certainly seems to be.” At her look of dawning hope, he smiled roguishly at her. “I daresay I should take even more pleasure than you, in getting you with child.”

She colored violently and instinctively shielded the baby’s ears. “Your Grace!”

“Ha! Master Peterson there can’t understand anything I’m saying. And, my dear—” tugging on her ringlet “—there is no need to blush, or consider it only a hypothetical. I would marry you tomorrow, if you were so inclined.”

There were footsteps on the staircase, as Miss Robinson came out, announcing her sister had given birth to a second boy. Elizabeth and Wellington turned their discussion of hypothetical children to praise of the real ones. Wellington took Elizabeth home, where Mrs. Peterson’s twin boys offered enough conversation to avoid talking of something Elizabeth was uncomfortably aware of: tomorrow, her mourning ended.

 

***

 

Gowns of every color save purple, gray, and black blossomed across her bedroom, draped over chairs, hung from the bedposts, strewn over trunks. Elizabeth felt as if she had been walking through a succession house, bright with blooms. Elizabeth flit from gown to gown, unable to make a decision lest it show that she did feel… done with her mourning. That was— Elizabeth glanced at her bare wrist— she would always carry with her that loss, but she was not lost within her grief. Not any longer. She tied a pastel pink ribbon about her wrist in a jaunty bow.

There came a knock at the door.

“Yes?” Elizabeth called.

Marjorie came in, and looked approvingly about the chaos. “Spoilt for choice, I see!”

“I am not sure I can say how much I missed colors,” said Elizabeth. “What do you think of this one?” She held up a gown of dusky rose muslin. She would have liked to wear white, but had a horror of accidentally bleeding through her petticoats and skirts.

“Lovely,” said Marjorie approvingly.

“You’ll look a right treat, ma’am,” said Mrs. Pattinson, and efficiently dressed her. Elizabeth reached automatically for her widow’s veil but Mrs. Pattinson stuck one of Elizabeth’s little, white lace caps on the top of her head. “There ma’am. Perfect.”

Elizabeth fussed with it after Mrs. Pattinson went to take last night’s night rail and used clouts and petticoats to the laundry. What would everyone say? Would they censure her for quitting her blacks? But Marjorie straightened Elizabeth's cap and said, firmly, “You’re well within your rights, you know, and at least _one_ person has been counting the days ‘til you had quit your blacks for good.”

“I… are you sure Matlock won’t be censorious?”

“Yes.” Marjorie began sorting through the mess of earrings Elizabeth had pulled from her jewel case. “Really, I could not have timed Mrs. Kirke’s niece having a baby any better if I had planned it! Matlock has this idea that women cannot be truly happy unless they have children. Nonsense really, but very useful in our case. He’s been at a loss as to what you want and what you should do once your mourning ends. Your wishing to have a child is something he understands.”

“I always fancied he would have me stay in mourning forever. That seems to be the Fitzwilliam way.”

“He and old Mr. Darcy and Lady Catherine all had thirty odd years and at least an heir before their matches passed. I don’t think he, at least, would expect the same of you. Lady Catherine might, but I take as little notice of Lady Catherine as I possibly can, and advise you to do the same.” She unearthed a pair of coral drops Elizabeth had owned since childhood. “These are the closest match, unless you wish for pearls.”

Elizabeth put them on, realizing what basic assumptions had been accepted when beginning the conversation and said, “Marjorie, he has not— that is, I know his intentions are serious, but we are not engaged. And I—” Flustered, she stood and knocked over her pile of opened but unread correspondence. When gathering them up she found a cartoon Mary Crawford had sent on, of a woman with face utterly obscured by mourning veil, walking down a path with stones marked with number of days. After the stone marked ‘366’ was a bush behind which a caricature of Wellington lurked, holding a burlap sack, as if to kidnap her. This was entitled, ‘The End Of the Widow F—’s Mourning.’

Marjorie picked it up and frowned. “Might I recommend a very public period of courtship?”

“I can only imagine that would cause more comment.”

“Yes,” said Marjorie, “exactly. It is generally the unfamiliar that causes anxiety. Something that is repeated, whether it is true or not, gives people a sense of comfort, and they grow to accept and rely upon it.”

Elizabeth felt very relieved to go down to breakfast and be treated with relative normalcy. Miss Duncan made a point of mentioning what a nice color muslin she had picked, but Matlock, Honoria, and Julian did not take offense at it, even if they did not comment on it, and all of Wellington’s party were complimentary. She felt Wellington’s gaze on her as she sat in her usual place on his left, and, when she was relatively sure she would not be observed, turned to offer him a tentative smile.

“You look charming,” he said, offering her a pot of marmalade in return. “It is very nice to see you in color again, Mrs. Fitz. That shade of rose particularly suits you. Are you happy to quit your blacks?”

She colored deeply. “I… don’t know.”

“You don’t?”

“I feel as if I have run a marathon and am just now catching my breath.” She chewed thoughtfully on her toast and said, “About… about what you said yesterday…” She had been too exhausted the night previous to wait up for him; they had not talked privately since they had quitted the Peterson household.

“Yes?”

“To sprint into something else too quickly strikes me as a good way to injure myself, and take out any innocent bystander who tries to help me along.”

He put down his coffee cup, a little concerned. “But you do wish…?”

“Yes,” she hastened to assure him, raising her eyes to meet his. “Oh yes! Very much so. I cannot tell you how much. But, I—not _yet_ , that is all. I still worry what people will say.” Then, fearing that all eyes were upon her, immediately proposed a game of cricket for the children once they had finished breakfast. Spencer, who had come back from Eton mad for cricket, was in whoops of joy. Elizabeth threw herself into activity.

Though she could admit to her love to herself, she was not sure she had the resources, yet, to admit it to her in-laws. What she would say to her own parents was something she resolutely refused to consider, until the immediate hurtle of the Fitzwilliams had been cleared.

But, she soon realized that all the Fitzwilliams seemed to have taken Wellington’s going after her, on the anniversary of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s death, as a declaration of intent, which Elizabeth had to admit, it was. He had gone after her as if he had not merely the right, but the obligation to do so; and it was clear from how markedly he turned to her and attended her today, that she was being courted. Julian said nothing, but did not interfere either; just looked on in mild confusion, and Honoria said, somewhat stiffly, “Lizzy, I hope you don’t think any of us would be difficult about your moving on. At least, none of our generation would be.”

A few days later, during one the now frequent games of cricket, the Earl of Matlock was in the field with her, watching Wellington pitch to Charles. The Earl cleared his throat significantly. Elizabeth, with babies on the brain, tended to be rather sentimentally absorbed by the sight of Wellington with his children, but tore her eyes away. “Sir?”

Matlock said, awkwardly, “I am sure you have noticed that second marriages are very uncommon within the family.”

Elizabeth blushed violently. “Sir, I—”

He struggled with himself and said, “Our family has always believed that there is only one person for whom you are ordained by God to love— as a spouse, that is— and a second match... well, a second match is improbable, if not impossible, but I would not have you think I would characterize a second marriage as unthinkable or somehow immoral. My own Aunt Anne, after whom my sister Mrs. Darcy was named— she married twice. Her soulmate was an Iroquois chief, killed during the Seven Years’ War in America. She was utterly heartbroken at his loss. But Aunt Anne knew her duty to her family, and married an ally of my father’s about two years later, to win him to the Whig side. Very admirable action on her part, and I do not think she was unhappy. She is the current Lady Ravenshaw, and has three healthy children by her second husband. She had no children from her first, and I cannot help but think a woman is very unhappy without children.” He cleared his throat again. “The longing for children is natural and just, and should be considered with due seriousness.”

Elizabeth confusedly agreed to this.

“And too,” said Matlock, now looking at Wellington, “there are duties one owes to one’s party. A man who does not see the influence of women, in the formation and cohesion of the Whig party, is a man too stupid for office. And, too, set ideas must sometimes be put aside as untenable. Pragmaticism is the lifeblood of politics.”

Elizabeth was deeply embarrassed and said, “Sir, I— do believe me, I have been… I am aware of— but pray believe I did love your son very much; and had he lived, I would still happily be his wife. But as he is gone….”

“Whatever you decide,” said Matlock, “we will all of us support you. I pray you will not think us reenacting _Glenarvon_ here. Your choice is your own. But there are… benefits to accepting the Duke of Wellington, that we are all sensible of, and I should hope you are as well.” Then, after a moment, he said, “He seems a changed man since this February; quite reformed from his former rakishness. I think he would make you a good husband.”

“Thank you sir,” said Elizabeth, and was extremely glad to find it was her turn to bowl.

To the relief of escape was added the joy of doing something at which she was naturally good; she was a natural bowler, with a good aim, and an ability to hit bat or wicket whenever she pitched. Wellington attributed it to having a good eye and followed this up with flirtatious compliments; Elizabeth privately thought it was because Colonel Fitzwilliam had spent so much time after the Battle of Vitoria teaching her how not just to load, but accurately fire a pistol. But enough, she thought. It is time to let the past lie; and she gave herself up wholly to the enjoyment of the present.

 

***

 

The long cricket games gave way at last, to a return to Paris, where they were invited to a ball at the British Ambassador’s residence. Elizabeth was at first nervous, for she had been out of practice dancing, and she was still uncertain how people would react to her, but though she was the subject of a number of sly looks and impertinent remarks, no one was unkind to her. She had already been considered Wellington’s chief confidante and more-or-less lived in his pocket; now that he was flirting with her outright instead of treating her with marked friendliness there was not very much change in her reputation or position in these circles.

Indeed, after one very awkward dance, Charles Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord (the French Minister for Foreign Affairs, and the greatest political chameleon of the era), enlisted her help entirely due to her reputation, for they were introduced for the first time that evening: “My dear Mrs. Fitzwilliam, I hear all over Paris you are the one to speak to regarding… delicate matters that must reach the ear of the Duke of Wellington.”

“I suppose it depends on your definition of ‘delicate,’” said Elizabeth. “There may be a wide difference between the English and the French notion of the word.”

“It is in regard to the former Empress of France,” said Talleyrand, in her ear. “And some might take it amiss to hear that the Duke of Wellington’s advice had been sought on that head, especially given his past... interactions, shall we say, with our former Emperor’s mistresses. And yet, it is needed.”

Elizabeth glanced sideways at him, from underneath her lashes, trying to take the measure of him. She said, “I can pass on your message, sir, but I cannot promise you anything.”

“All I require is a confidential meeting, for a quarter of an hour,” said Talleyrand. “One outside of either of our residences.”

Though Wellington generally trusted Elizabeth to fend for herself, he came over at her pleading look and said lightly, “Made another conquest, have you, my dear?”

Talleyrand smiled and said smoothly, “So charming a woman! How could one not be entranced? But I bow out of the fray; I know a superior force when I see it.” But to Elizabeth he gave a significant look before he limped away.

Elizabeth took Wellington’s arm and, unfurling her fan to hide her face, quietly passed on the message. Wellington frowned and said, “Presidents, kings, and emperors have trusted Talleyrand at their peril.”

“My inclination would be to ask Lord Pumphrey how matters stand,” she murmured, “before agreeing to anything.”

Lord Pumphrey sighed and said, “Tiresome beast! He is right.” They were all three of them out on the terrace; Lord Pumphrey gestured at Carter-the-suspiciously-multi-talented-footman to make sure they were not overheard. “Our dear former Empress Maria Louisa is pregnant.”

Wellington raised his eyebrows. “I could have sworn Boney hadn’t seen his wife after his escape from Elba. I suppose it must have been a very brief visit.”

“He made the most of it, if so,” said Elizabeth, but then, as she’d had babies on her mind for the past fortnight, realized something didn’t add up. “Hold a moment— it is only just now discovered she is with child? When is she expecting to be brought to bed?”

“Next year,” said Lord Pumphrey, sourly. “Metternich very cleverly set an officer of his, Neipperg, to seduce the former Empress as soon as Napoleon went to Elba. Neipperg appears to have succeeded remarkably well.”

“And this is… a problem how?” asked Wellington. “There’s nothing more common than an unhappily married woman taking on a lover.”

“It is a problem in that the French people, who mostly still love Bonaparte, will not be best pleased to hear this. Rioting may result.”

Wellington sighed. “Good God. The people of Paris spend more time rioting than doing anything else. Very well. Mrs. Fitz, my dear, tell Talleyrand I shall be riding about the Pont Royal and the Quai Voltaire tomorrow, and wouldn’t it be _remarkable_ if we suddenly ran into each other?”

Elizabeth did so, and, her business concluded, felt at leisure to enjoy the ball. She danced every dance, and felt happy and light, cloudlike in her floating white _gauze de Turin,_ embroidered in silver thread and crystal beads, over a white silk slip, and her wedding diamonds. She had always liked dancing, and freely acknowledged vanity to be her chief flaw. Being the recipient of the pointed gallantries and flattering attentions of so practiced a rake and so important a man as Wellington was everything delightful. And, too, it was  a relief not to have to hide what she felt. Indeed, when Wellington came to claim her hand for the last dance of the evening, Elizabeth doubted she could have hidden her happiness at his doing so. The past few weeks had given her time and time enough to grow easy with and accustomed to her love. She felt she would not be able to deny it if anyone asked her if she was in love, and from time to time would catch Wellington’s eye and smile for no reason, other than the fact that she loved him and was happy.  

It was petty and unkind of her, but Elizabeth also took great pleasure in seeing the beautiful Mrs. Patterson staring after her in astonishment as Wellington kept Elizabeth on his arm long after the dance had ended. They fell into a lively and rather absorbing flirtation and missed the departure of the rest of their party. Elizabeth rather suspected this had been deliberate on Wellington’s part.

“Oh dear,” said Elizabeth, not very concerned. “However did that happen?”

“It is a mystery,” said Wellington, offering her his arm. “I’ll see you home safely, Mrs. Fitz.”

She squeezed his forearm lightly when she placed her hand upon it. “Oh Your Grace, such gallantry! You overwhelm me quite.”

Wellington handed her into the coach before anyone could notice the rest of their party had gone, and drew the blinds, settling himself beside her. As soon as the coachman acted upon the call to drive on, Wellington put his arm about her.

“Sir, such liberties!” exclaimed Elizabeth, feigning offense.

“You look chilly, my dear,” said Wellington, stroking the transparent gauze of her sleeve. “This is very pretty, but really, you’ve just put on several layers of gossamer. You’ll freeze to death. It feels more like winter than summer.”

“Oh well then,” said Elizabeth, turning to him, putting her arms about his neck, “if it is only to stave off frostbite— perhaps I had better sit on your lap?”

“It worked once before,” said Wellington, settling her on his knee.

“I really can’t believe I let you do that,” said Elizabeth, as he nuzzled the hollow of her throat. She tipped her head back, exposing more of her neck to him. “ _You_ were still married. _I_ was still in full mourning.”

“I can be very persuasive,” he replied smugly.

However, sitting on his lap proved untenable. Once they had managed to escape the very slow traffic of the drive, they were on narrow, twisted, medieval roads made of uneven cobblestone; and Elizabeth was obliged to reach a hand up to the carriage strap, to keep from tumbling over. She was much more focused on keeping her seat than the fact she was sitting on Wellington’s lap. A peek out the window proved that they were still some miles away from the broad new boulevards, and they reluctantly gave up the attempt.

“I have an idea,” said Wellington, and fell to his knees before her. For a moment Elizabeth thought he might propose and felt a stab of fear and exhilaration, but he merely pushed up her skirts.

Elizabeth felt something she chose to identify as relief merely because she felt a sudden inner lowering from a point of almost painful tension, and spread her legs for him.

“Hold onto the strap, darling,” he said, putting his gloved hands to the bare skin above her stockings. The leather felt cool and strange against her skin, as he inched her petticoats up. Elizabeth gathered her skirts together in her lap, holding them to her torso with her left arm, and clinging onto the carriage strap with her right.

He moved his thumbs in soft circles over her inner thighs. “Both hands, sweetheart.”

“My gown will get in the way,” she protested.

“You’ll like it better that way, I assure you,” Wellington said, with the sort of gentle arrogance that always made Elizabeth melt for him. “That, and it’s a little easier to hide what we are doing should one of the footmen unexpectedly rap on the window. Now are you going to be a good girl?”

Elizabeth took hold of the strap with both hands and let her skirts cascade over him with a doubtful, “If you say so, Arthur.”

She felt him kiss the top of her thigh, just above her garter. “I do. Good girl.”

Elizabeth could not see, but could only feel his licentious course towards the seat of her pleasure, which rather added to the thrill of it. She was constantly guessing as to his course, soon in a state of surprised anticipation, and let out a throaty, “Yes!” as he at last reached his target.

She pressed her forehead against her forearm; the smooth, white kid leather of her ball gloves felt cool against her flushed face. It was difficult to bite back her moan, and she quivered with the effort to keep still. Wellington held onto her hips with almost bruising strength; his fingers dug into the soft flesh there, causing more pleasure than pain. For a time Elizabeth lost herself in sensation; then she felt him shift, and slid a shoulder under her right leg. The light scratching of his epaulette against the underside of her thigh drove her wild, and when, a moment later, she felt two gloved fingers pressed teasingly against her entrance, she exclaimed, “Oh Christ! Arthur, _please—_ ”

He teased her first, tracing delicately around where she wished him to touch, before he obliged her, sliding easily in, and curling his fingers up to press against a spot that made her blaspheme in delight. His other attentions had not ceased during this time. Elizabeth pressed up against him, panting and trembling, until she reached a moment of explosive release.

“Didn’t I tell you?” he asked, smugly, from under her skirts. At this point the sound of the coachwheels turning from cobblestones to gravel drive, was punctuated by the noise of a gun going off, and the sound of shattering glass. She gasped in surprise, and started up; only to fall back as the carriage horses themselves started forward.

Wellington emerged from under her skirts, not sure what to make of her reaction, or the odd movement of the carriage, and saw Elizabeth staring in alarm at what appeared to be a bullet hole in the shade nearest her.

Elizabeth let go of the strap and reached for him, with an anxious cry, of “Are you hurt?”

“No. I daresay I have made some cartoonist very happy, for having literally sheltered under your skirts during an attack.” He had caught her up in his arms, and feeling her trembling against him, smoothed her hair from her face and looked down into it with worry. “Are you alright?”

“Just startled.”

The coach came to a very abrupt stop; both of them instinctively slid to the floor of the coach. They were still untangling themselves when one of the French footmen opened the door, with an alarmed, “ _J'espère, Monseigneur, que votre Excellence n’est pas blessé_ ?” He eyed Elizabeth, looking pale and shaken, and asked, “ _Et Madame aussi— tout va bien_?”

“ _Tout ne va pas bien de tout_ , dammit,” said Wellington, testily. “Did any damned person see who decided to use my carriage for target practice?”  It seemed no one had. “For God’s sake, why not? I’ll see Mrs. Fitzwilliam safe inside—” spotting two servants turning up the drive. “Who shot at the coach? Did you see anyone running from here, or riding?”

The servants had assumed that the sentry’s guns had gone off, and had paid no attention to the man running by them. “For,” one of the servants said, apologetically, “he had no gun, sir, nor lantern, only a cloth parcel, and I thought him a porter late with a delivery. He was in his shirtsleeves, sir.”

“Well, go after him!” exclaimed Wellington, as the sentries came up, drawn by the commotion. He turned to Elizabeth and pinched the bridge of his nose, as if to stave off a headache. “By God, if this assassin doesn’t kill me, my own servants will. They hear a gunshot or see a man running from my house, and in the face of it, do… nothing. Very sensible.”

“They came to make sure you were alright,” protested Elizabeth, but this was weakly said, for she her knees were trembling and she rather needed to sit down. However, Elizabeth’s first action, once inside, was to dash off a note to Lord Pumphrey; Wellington gave her a tot of brandy when he saw her hand was shaking as she dipped her pen in the ink and said, with a gruff affection, “It’s only after that one really feels the toll of a battle.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “I shall be fine— I only need a little time to recover.”

The door to the study was opening, people rushing to and fro, members of the household wandering about, questioning the servants. Despite this, Wellington raised one of her hands to his lips and kissed it. “You’re made of stronger stuff than most, Elizabeth.”

“That or I time my falling to pieces better than most,” she replied. A sudden fear gripped her and she seized his hand when he would release it. “Please don’t— please don’t think I am not aware of the certain dangers you face, or that I would be incapable of meeting them—”

“Ha! No, no, my dear, I know people underestimate you at your own peril. If you are willing to take the risk—”

“Of course I am!” she replied indignantly. “It is all I have ever known, in married life.”

He was called away to speak to the Chief of Police; she finished her note and went to bed. Early the next morning, Lord Pumphrey called upon her.

“I’m putting Carter with you,” said Lord Pumphrey, lounging in a discontented way in a damask armchair. He drummed on the arm; there was a sense of dangerous potentiality, like a coiled spring, or a tiger at rest, in how he held himself. “Their attacking immediately once he returned to Paris tells me several things, the most important of which is this: they are desperate. I have a feeling they will attack again, and soon.”

Elizabeth said anxiously, “But why?

“My hunting hounds have caught his scent,” said Lord Pumphrey. “That seems the likeliest explanation. It’s only a matter of time until we catch him, and he well knows it. If he has any hope of success, he must act swiftly. Especially now that he’s mucked up this attempt. Really, very poorly thought out scheme. Shoot at a moving carriage? He’s panicking.”

“Oh yes, a _panicked_ assassin, that really does make me feel better.”

Wellington came in at this and, after hearing Lord Pumphrey’s take on the situation, said that the best thing, to his mind, was to keep calm and carry on.

“You were shot at!” Elizabeth protested.

“That is what being a soldier entails,” said Wellington. “It’s hardly an unfamiliar state of affairs.”

Elizabeth turned to Lord Pumphrey, very vexed, but to her shock, he sided with Wellington. “Sang-froid is the word of the day, my dear,” he said. “If His Grace brushes it off, so will everyone else. Go on about your business as if nothing had happened. I and the police will continue our investigations. I am especially keen on your keeping your confidential appointment with Monsieur Talleyrand today, Your Grace. I have a feeling he can help us more than he has been. We do a favor for him; he shall do a favor for us.”

This did not sit well with Elizabeth. When Carter the-not-footman appeared, she said, “I hope you like long walks. We are going to stroll along the Quai Voltaire.”

“Isn’t that where Monsieur Talleyrand—” He caught on, and grinned, saying, “You’re a game goer, ma’am.”

She did not feel very much like one, merely a bundle of nerves. Elizabeth tried to pretend she was out and about for her own reasons, ones entirely unrelated to Wellington, and feigned interest in one of the little bookseller stalls that dotted the bank of the Seine, between the Pont Royal and the Quai Voltaire. She turned over the books unseeingly.

“I have English books too, milady,” the bookseller said, very proudly. “Here, this is what everyone is reading in London.”

Elizabeth put her hand to it, hoping against hope Sir Walter Scott had published a new novel, but, no. It was _Glenarvon._ She couldn’t help but sigh. “Have you any other English materials, Monsieur?”

He beamingly pointed to a row of hand-colored prints handing across the top of his little green kiosk. The one occupying pride of place was a handsome print of the battle of Yorktown. Elizabeth smiled at the redcoats but was a little confused to see them outnumbered seemingly two to one by enemy combatants.

Then she realized: like the French, American military coats were blue.

Things began to fall quickly into place.

Mrs. Patterson _had_ seen a soldier. She just assumed soldiers wore blue. And Elizabeth had heard boots— all soldiers wore boots— and the servants had mentioned that the assassin was in his shirtsleeves, carrying a cloth bundle, which could very well have been a uniform coat, folded up over a pistol—

That was it. A French soldier was after the Duke of Wellington.

Elizabeth stared fixedly at the print, her hand still on _Glenarvon._

“Madame?” asked the bookseller, worriedly.

“Carter,” said Elizabeth, “I think I’ve put it all together. Please go find Lord Pumphrey. I have a feeling he’s about. I’ll wait here.” Carter bowed and departed. She turned, looking about restlessly for Wellington. Where was he? She had seen him “accidentally” meet with Talleyrand at least ten minutes ago— ah, there he was, coming down the street, Lords Fitzroy and March behind him.

Yet her anxiety did not ease as she watched his familiar figure come closer, as she could make out the way his horse Copenhagen blew out its nostrils in exasperation at the slower horses about him. Elizabeth spotted something blue out of the corner of her eye. She turned saw a man in a French infantry uniform, of Napoleon’s beloved Old Guard, on the other side of the street, moving with far too much purpose. French military uniforms were now very much frowned upon; this man had put it on deliberately and for a purpose. Infantryman or officer? Certainly an officer— the epaulettes on the shoulder glinted, gold braid winked from the end of the sleeve as the officer put his hand to his sash, to pull out—

Oh God, it was a pistol.

Before Elizabeth could run to him or even call out, there was an arm about her throat, dragging her back, into the shadows of the bridge post. She raked desperately at the arm, fighting for breath.  

“ _Pas cette fois, Madame_ ,” said a rough voice in her ear.

The officer of the Old Guard continued on unchecked, and leveled his pistol at the unknowing, approaching Duke of Wellington.


	14. In which Mrs. Fitzwilliam finally finds a use for 'Glenarvon'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a head's up that updates will probably be a bit less frequent-- I'm starting a new job so I don't have as much spare time to write. Alas! (Also, my particular thanks to eleith for the shelf bit. You'll know the bit when you read it.)

Elizabeth tore at her assailant’s sleeve, wishing she had taken off her gloves, so that she could dig her nails into the unprotected skin of his wrist. She found no purchase, and her head was already swimming. Oh God, if she was too late—

‘Calm yourself, Miss Lizzy!’ she thought sharply. Her mental voice sounded very much like her mother. ‘Haven’t you been trained for exactly this situation?’

Elizabeth felt her assailant’s arm tightening about her neck; she instinctively moved her head up and then recalled, ‘yes, I’ve been in this _exact_ situation before’. Squeezing her eyes shut, she jammed her chin, _hard_ , into her captor’s inner elbow.

He swore at her but Elizabeth seized hold of his elbow, moving her right foot out, swinging out with the left and spun out of his hold as if turning in a dance. She was a little astonished she had done so and accidentally kept going, until his arm was bent behind him.

He cried out in pain and Elizabeth’s first, flustered instinct was to apologize, but then she realized this man was trying to kill her and kicked him in the knee. Elizabeth was not entirely sure how effective this was, since she was not in the habit of kicking anything, but at least he was incapacitated long enough for her run back to the road. The bookseller had picked up her reticule and Kashmir shawl from where she had dropped them and was frozen in bewilderment. He asked her something in French.

“What?” she panted, massaging her throat. Her attention was on the road, trying to find the assassin— oh damn her bonnet! She was as good as blinkered! She impatiently drew it off, only for the bookseller to drop her things to the counter and pointed behind her. The French settled home in her brain. The bookseller was attempting to tell her that her assailant had recovered and was behind her.

Elizabeth, not sure what else to do, hit her assailant with her bonnet, quite crushing the brim, but doing little else but making the man very angry with her.

The bookseller fled shouting, “Au secours!” which was not particularly helpful in that moment. Elizabeth ran backwards, keeping a hand to the counter to keep from falling, and her fingertips bumped up against something. She glanced down. Goddamn it all. Of course it was _Glenarvon._

When she looked up again, she was faced with the barrel of a gun. Pointed by a very angry man speaking French much too fast for her to possibly follow.

‘That’s not good,’ she thought with hysterical calm. Elizabeth picked up the first thing on hand— _Glenarvon_ —and hurled it at her assailant as she might a cricket ball.

Cricket balls and books do not have much in common, particularly not shape or aerodynamic abilities. Instead of knocking the pistol out of her assailant’s hands, as she had hoped, she hit her assailant squarely in the nose. He tripped backwards and seized upon the upper shelf of books, adorned with the prints that had caught Elizabeth’s notice earlier. The shelf did nothing to halt his progress towards the ground. Indeed, it merrily followed after him, and he was buried under an avalanche of second-hand ladies’ conduct manuals.

Elizabeth cautiously leaned forward.

The man lay groaning on the pavement, under the untidy pile of books, which at least meant he wasn’t dead. Elizabeth gave up her bonnet as a lost cause, but wrapped her red and gold Kashmir shawl tightly about her shoulders before stepping on the man’s wrist and prying the pistol from his grip.

“I’m very sorry,” Elizabeth said, flustered, “but really, sir, you left me few other choices.”

The man groaned.

She pretended this was agreement.

Now where was—

A pistol shot rang out like thunder; the street erupted into expanding ripples of chaos, like a stone hurled into a pond breaking the surface of the water. Elizabeth could not breathe, could not make sense of the images before her— had Wellington been hit? She could not see him. Her heart in her throat, she fought her way through the panicked people running or screaming; she spotted the uniform of Napoleon’s Old Guard and ran forward. Oh God, where was Wellington, was he hurt? She could only see a glimpse of a rearing Copenhagen being forcefully brought to all fours, and the assassin casting aside his spent pistol and pulling another from his sash.

Elizabeth raised her pistol, aimed it at the assassin’s arm, and tried to brace herself as best she could by digging the heels of her halfboots into the gaps between the cobblestones.

She pulled the trigger.

The recoil was much worse than she recalled; she practically flew backwards, landing hard on the cobblestones, frightening several women out doing their shopping. The breath was jolted out of her and Elizabeth  could not see due in equal measure to the angle at which she now sat, and the cloud of gunpowder from the pistol.

She heard a second shot—

Elizabeth gasped for breath and tried to struggle upright, managing to raise herself to her knees in time to see this shot go wide and nick Copenhagen’s flank.

Though Elizabeth let out a cry of dismay, this was quite the best thing that could have happened. Copenhagen was a highly trained cavalry horse, who had bad-temperedly survived every English battle on the continent since 1813. Copenhagen immediately and automatically kicked out towards the shot, and hit the assassin squarely in the stomach.

The assassin was much the worse for this.

Carter the-not-footman appeared then, shoving his way through the crowd, and flung himself down over the assassin. Elizabeth dizzily put a gloved hand to the pavement and tried to draw in a deep breath. She was not sure her legs would hold her if she stood, but where had that first shot gone?

One of the French women cowering by the stone fencing by the Pont Royal now approached Elizabeth and asked, tentatively, “ _Qui vive_?”

“ _Je ne sais pas_ ,” Elizabeth said. She knew it was the old sentry call for the French, one where they demanded to know one’s loyalty by a ‘ _vive le roi_ ’ or ‘ _vive l'empereur’_ but her mind was still on Wellington. Was he alive? Had she managed to do anything at all? There were too many people before her; she could see nothing.

Then— oh, the sweetest sounds!— she heard Wellington cursing.

“Goddammit,” said Wellington. “Fitzroy, March! Establish a perimeter! Clear the area! Pumphrey, where the devil are you? Carter, is it? You’re late about your work! That fellow damn near killed me.”

Elizabeth felt giddy in her relief. She did not know whether to laugh or cry, so merely sat back on her heels and took in a deep breath. She saw a flash of vermillion silk through the crowd, and heard Lord Pumphrey say in tones of deep annoyance, “Yes, but did he? No.”

“Whatever operative of yours shot at this officer here took his damned time! The fellow nicked me before he shot poor Copenhagen here.” He sounded more offended over his horse’s having been hit than having been hit himself.

“That operative of mine would probably be Mrs. Fitzwilliam,” said Lord Pumphrey.

“ _What_?”

“Carter, where did you leave her?”

“By a book stall, sir, but the shot came from—”

“Here, my lords,” Elizabeth called out weakly.

Lords Fitzroy and March managed to clear the crowd somewhat and Elizabeth could now at last see Wellington atop Copenhagen. It was impossible to say whether man or horse looked more annoyed, but Wellington dismounted at once, tossing his reins at Lord Pumphrey (“What am I supposed to do with this?” Lord Pumphrey demanded of Carter, very aggravated) and strode over to Elizabeth.

At his approach, the Frenchwomen fled. Elizabeth gathered up her shawl about her— it had slid off when she fell— and with shaking hand flung one of the ends over her shoulder. It did not cover up all the mud and dust liberally adorning her gloves and the bottom half of her gown, nor did it make up for her utter lack of hat, but she felt a little more put together.

“Mrs. Fitz,” Wellington said, in tones of obvious concern, “my dear, are you alright?” He approached with his right hand outstretched, as he was cradling his bloodied left arm to his chest.

“I look much worse than I feel, Your Grace,” Elizabeth hastened to assure him. She shakily put her hand on his and managed to haul herself up. “But you— are you alright? Your arm—”

“Nicked me, that’s all.” He drew her towards him, before checking the impulse to embrace her. “What the hell did Pumphrey ask you to do?”

“Nothing, sir,” said Elizabeth honestly. She was still focused on his arm, trying to ascertain the extent of the damage, while being unwilling to actually touch it herself when she was so liberally coated with all the filth from the Parisian cobblestones.

Once she was steady, Wellington looked on the ground about her, as she was very obviously missing a hat. He found her pistol instead. “My dear, is that... _your_ pistol?”

“No. Well, in a way,” she amended, taking off her gloves and waving vaguely behind her. She felt a spurt of inappropriate gaiety. “A gentleman gave it me.”

He looked his incredulity.

“I suppose that was a poor joke on my part,” said Elizabeth, tucking her gloves under her arm. “I took it from him. Not very cricket, as the saying goes, but he _was_ trying to kill me with it, so I felt my actions were justified. Give me your handkerchief, will you? I’ve lost my reticule somewhere.”

Wellington automatically did so and Elizabeth dabbed carefully at his arm. She glanced up only to see him looking down at her with an attitude of mixed exasperation and fondness.

“My sweet girl,” he said, in a low, affectionate tone, “I ought to know by now, all you would do for those you love, but I hadn’t thought—”

“Oh how can you doubt I love you?” Elizabeth asked, tears burning in her eyes. “At least, I hope you would not _now._ Not after I tried to shoot an assassin for you.”

Wellington had to confine the joy he felt at this admittedly unusual _beau geste_ to a heartfelt, “Oh, my love,” for at that point, the bookseller returned, with several _gendarmes_ in tow. Elizabeth took off her fichu, as it was the only clean item of clothing she currently possessed and used it to bind the handkerchief to Wellington’s arm. Wellington rested his right hand on her shoulder as she did this, gripping tightly in reassurance— to reassure her or to reassure himself? She wasn’t sure.

Lord Pumphrey managed to pass off Copenhagen’s reigns to Carter, once the _gendarmerie_ took hold of the assassin.

“I knocked out another fellow by that man’s stall,” said Elizabeth, tying the lacy ends of her fichu tight.

“Of course you did,” said Lord Pumphrey, and directed two men to go off with the bookseller. “Tell me what happened, now, before the impressions fade.”

Elizabeth tried to organize her muddled thoughts. She felt as if they were jittering around inside of her. She pressed her palm to her forehead in a vague attempt to calm them and said, “Well— I— I sent Carter to you, for I realized Mrs. Patterson had been telling the truth. She’d seen a soldier— a French soldier. But I think the— the gentleman I knocked out with the book—”

“The who?” asked Wellington.

“That person,” said Elizabeth, nodding at where the _gendarmes_ were hauling the fallen man by the bookseller’s stall upright. “I suppose—I suppose he must have been watching me, waiting for Carter to go, for he grabbed hold of me as soon as Carter left, so I kicked him in the knee—”

“Of course you did,” said Wellington.

“—and hit him with my bonnet, and—I suppose it wouldn’t shock either of you to learn that they were not very effective means of attack so I was forced to throw a book at him. He fell down then, and took a shelf with him, so I took his pistol and I—I am sorry, I did try to shoot the man Carter seized—”

“You hit him, ma’am,” Carter reported, gingerly leading a very testy Copenhagen over. “Bullet to the wrist. Caused him to miss his shot.” Then, to Wellington, he said, “Your Grace, your horse keeps trying to knock me over when it isn’t trying to pull the reins from my hands or kick me. I believe he’s trying to kill me, sir.”

“Who can blame him?” Wellington asked. “Poor Copenhagen’s had a hell of a day, and you’re holding his reins incorrectly.” He released Elizabeth’s shoulder to take Copenhagen’s reins, and then reached out to stroke his neck, talking to his horse in a soothing croon. “There’s a good fellow—yes, I know. Nasty shot to the flank you had. But no bullet. It’s an easy mend, Copenhagen. We’ll just put a poultice and a bandage on it. What a good fellow you are!”

Copenhagen spotted Elizabeth and went forward eagerly. He lipped at her shawl.

“I haven’t any bread for you,” said Elizabeth.

She was not entirely sure if Copenhagen understood her or not, for then he snorted and stamped his feet, but he _had_ also just been shot and was not a good tempered horse in the best of times. Elizabeth was moved to stroke his neck and say, fervently, “I wish I did. You deserve a bakery.”

“Right, well,” said Lord Pumphrey, “enough standing about on the street like peasants. My own carriage is still on the bridge. Lord Wellington, the _gendarmerie_ would like a word, I think, before we spirit you away. Mrs. Fitzwilliam, if you will stop embracing the horse?”

“Oh,” said Elizabeth, still flustered and a little overset,  “Lord Pumphrey I cannot go.”

He began gently pushing her towards the Pont Royal. “I insist on it.”

Elizabeth dug her heels in. “No, but I owe the _bouquiniste_ money.”

Lord Pumphrey stared at her. “You owe the _bouquiniste_ money… for what?”

“A copy of _Glenarvon_.”

Lord Pumphrey said nothing.

It was remarkable, the degree to which he said nothing.

“I threw a book—”

“And of course you threw _that_ book,” said Lord Pumphrey. “Mrs. Fitzwilliam, there is a strange logic to you, but what the devil it is I am sure I could not say.”

 

***

 

Colonel Pascal had just arrived at Wellington’s, and was astonished to see Elizabeth in a state of such deshabille, with hair falling from its pins and no hat upon her head, her gown torn and extraordinarily dirty, tumbling down the steps of Lord Pumphrey’s carriage. He was even more astonished to see Wellington rushed indoors, with what was clearly a woman’s fichu wrapped about his forearm.

“Hello Pascal,” said Elizabeth, feeling so frazzled she could focus only on the absurdity of the morning’s events. “I finally found a use for _Glenarvon_.”

“You did?” he asked, bewildered, as he was swept inside with the rest of the party.

“Yes,” said Elizabeth. “It’s very good for stunning people. In form as well as content. I stunned a man today by throwing a copy at his head.”

“You _what_?”

Wellington translated, “Another assassination attempt. Some lout grabbed Mrs. Fitz and she chucked a book at his head.”

“I see,” said Colonel Pascal, in tones that made it clear that he did not see at all. “Are you quite alright?”

“My gown took the worst of it,” said Elizabeth, “but you will look at His Grace’s arm, will you not? He was nicked.”

“I was nicked by an assassin at the Quai Voltaire. Mrs. Fitz then shot him.”

Colonel Pascal was too elegant to gape, but he was close to doing so. “Shot him! Is he alive?”

Wellington said, dryly, as they arrived in his study, “He was when the French police took hold of him. Whether or not he will be afterwards is entirely their affair.”

The rest of the household, alarmed by the clamour, began spilling out of rooms and downstairs, demanding to know what had happened. Elizabeth was quite overwhelmed. Colonel Pascal deftly extracted Elizabeth from the crowd and deposited her into a hastily quitted parlor, full of abandoned card games and needlework.

Elizabeth still felt dizzy with the events of the morning and sank gratefully in a chair by the fire. Colonel Pascal rang a bell for a servant and after giving some very quick orders in French, went to the sideboard and poured her a brandy. “Here. Drink. Doctor’s orders.”

Elizabeth managed a mouthful, but felt if she tried to eat or drink anything she’d only make herself sick. She was in a state of profound agitation, now that the inappropriate giddiness was beginning to wear off. “Pascal, really, you should—I am perfectly fine. But His Grace was—”

“Yes, I have matters under control,” said Colonel Pascal firmly. “I am waiting on the servants to fetch me sufficient vinegar before I venture into that lion’s den. But Elizabeth, you are _not_ fine, and I would not consider myself either a proper friend or a proper doctor if I did not make sure you were stabilized before I left you.”

A footman returned with a silver tray with laudanum on it, followed by another holding several jugs of vinegar. Colonel Pascal took the laudanum off the tray and then pointed down the hall. “Take the vinegar into His Grace’s study. I shall be in shortly. I’ll need clean linen bandages as soon as they can be got.”

Then he carefully poured a small measure of laudanum into a tumbler of water and set it by Elizabeth. “For your nerves.”

Elizabeth was too agitated to think of taking the laudanum drops; she pushed them back to Colonel Pascal and said, “No— no, I wish to see His Grace once you have seen to him. That is all I need. I promise you, that is all that currently makes me uneasy. If I could assure myself that he is well and that the wound did not become infected—”

Comprehension dawned.

It was like plunging through ice one had thought hardened over, and thick, but it wasn’t, not at all; it was thin and brittle, barely covering that dangerous depth that chilled and smothered, that blocked out all light; that sapped one of all strength.

‘Not again,’ she thought, utterly wretched. ‘I cannot bear to lose another man I love— and this time without even the benefit of being publicly acknowledged as his widow.’

Elizabeth felt she might dissolve into tears, until all that was left of her was her grief, but she took a deep breath and the danger passed.

Colonel Pascal said, after a moment, “This time, you were there and I am here. You need not worry.”

“I know I need not, but I shall.”

Colonel Pascal said dryly, “Well, I know the folly of checking you when you are determined to do something, but let me recommend your changing your gown, if not having a bath, so you may worry while clean. I promise you, I shall let you know how matters stand.” He gently pushed the glass back. “Take it. It is milder than the brandy.”

Elizabeth obeyed, but with a dour expression. Her maid Mrs. Pattinson ran in and let out a loud cry of dismay. Elizabeth was bullied upstairs and into a warm bath with really remarkable speed, her gown whisked out of sight, for he laundry, if not to the kitchen fire. Before she really understood what was happening, she’d been scrubbed clean and bundled into a clean shift and dressing gown. Elizabeth found herself before the fire, with her hair damp about her shoulders and her brush in her hand.

News of what had happened had filtered in somehow— Elizabeth supposed Wellington’s aides had said something, for she had been lulled into a state of hazy acquiescence by the laudanum and had even drifted off while bathing—and she found herself treated with a sort of careful awe by the maids, and a motherly pride from Mrs. Pattinson.

“There now,” said Mrs. Pattinson, helping to rub Elizabeth’s hair dry, “all that muck gone. Some of the kitchen maids would argue with me that you hadn’t shot our Atty’s assassin, but I know the Colonel taught you to shoot a pistol. I told them, I’d seen you discharge it time and time again at targets, and when the baggage train or the lady’s wagon came under attack, and I’d seen you threaten to blow up a powder wagon. The only thing that surprised _me_ was that you didn’t kill the bas—the—the _man_ what tried to kill the Duke.”

“Do you know if His Grace is well? Have you any report from Colonel Pascal?”

“Colonel Pascal had a devil of a time and threw everyone out of the study, last I heard,” said Mrs. Pattinson. “But there was a big to do and the ambassador Lord Greville was here and was blaming Monsewer Talleyrand for it and saying it was all part of a plot, and Lord Pumphrey was saying that couldn’t be proven, and the Duke was asking if anyone had seen to Copenhagen, and then Colonel Pascal said he couldn’t work like this and forced everyone out of the study.”

Elizabeth felt a little better for hearing this and asked Mrs. Pattinson to make sure Copenhagen was fed an entire baguette for his services.

This did leave Elizabeth alone by her fire. She stared at the flames and was entertained while the laudanum lasted, but Colonel Pascal hadn’t given her very much. She soon felt anxiety creep back in. Elizabeth leaned her elbow on the arm of her chair and pressed her hand to her mouth. It was over, it was all over. Pascal had promised he would send her word—

There was a knock on the door.

There, he had said he would and he had done it. Elizabeth raised her head and said, “Enter. The door’s unlocked.”

Wellington appeared in the doorway.

He was clearly tired, in his shirt-sleeves, with one rolled up showing the new bandage about his forearm, but he was alive; alive and here—

Elizabeth’s elbow slid off the arm of her chair; he locked the door behind him and opened his arms to her. She sprang up with a glad cry and flung herself at him, longing to be caught up in his arms, as she had ever since she had seen him dismount his horse. Wellington held her tightly.  Elizabeth buried her nose in the wilting folds of collar and cravat.

“Arthur,” she said, clinging to him. “I was so certain—“

“It would have been a certain thing but for you, my dear,” he said, wryly. “Many men have told their lovers they cannot live without them, but never to this degree of accuracy, I imagine.”

She managed a watery laugh. He smelled still of horse and vinegar but she did not mind; not when he was warm and breathing in her arms.

“God bless you, darling,” he whispered into the faintly damp, unbound waves of her hair.

Elizabeth raised her face to look up at him and could think only to kiss him and did so. He responded eagerly to her; he ran his hands roughly about her waist, up her back, then down, fumbling at the tie of her dressing gown. “Elizabeth, my love—“

This she knew; this instinct to prove she was still alive, that he was still alive, the graze of lips and teeth against her throat, the hot possessive roaming of strong hands she trusted. Elizabeth gave herself over to this, to him; struggled out of the clothes he was so fiercely stripping from her, reached to pull down his trousers. The final desperate shedding of shirt and shift; the feverish bare embrace, was all that Elizabeth wanted and yet more.

He lowered his head to take her breast his mouth. Elizabeth closed her eyes and clutched at his shoulders. She pressed up to him, sighing when he switched to the other, luxuriating in his caresses. Underneath the urgency of establishing the continued existence of the beloved with eager eyes, hands, and lips, there was always a fierce and undiluted joy in living, in knowing that danger was now past. There was reassurance in each kiss, in every touch. Elizabeth grew bold, let her hands roam over him, palms skimming over his arms, brushing the bandage about his arm, and then over shoulder blades, down his back, and up again, to derange his hair.

“You’re alright,” she said dazedly.

“Yes, my love. And you—”

“The only casualty was my gown. Mrs. Pattinson said she might have to burn it.” She pulled a little on his shoulders and, blushing, asked, “Arthur will you, that is—” Elizabeth glanced at the bed.

“With great pleasure,” he said, sweeping her off her feet and depositing her on the bed. Wellington went to lock the door to the servants’ hallway and hastily draw the curtains more securely shut, before she felt the mattress dip with his weight.

Elizabeth buried her face in the mattress, clutching the bed clothes. She was achingly aware of him behind her. He lightly trailed his fingers over her bottom and the back of her thighs, gently nudging her into place.

“Do you want me, sweetheart?”

“Want you! For God’s sake Arthur, you know I do. Pray stop teasing me.”

Wellington pressed a kiss to the back of her neck, a moment of reassurance, before she felt his hand settle there, holding her down. She melted.

“That’s my darling,” he said, sliding deeply into her. “That’s my good girl.”

Elizabeth pushed back against him, aching for him, wanting to take him as deeply as she could, and he groaned. “Dear God, Elizabeth.”

Wellington knew how to hold her, how to caress her, what to whisper into her ear until she was begging him to take her to completion, until a fevered “Please Arthur,” was all she could manage.

“Anything for you, my love,” he said, and brought her off with a touch.

The violence of her climax surprised her; she was speechless with the intensity of it. Elizabeth could only clutch into the bedclothes as it went shuddering through her. She bore down against Wellington, feeling herself seize around him. It was an ecstasy almost painful in its intensity. She felt tears come to her eyes, a sob rise in her throat. “Christ!”

“My God,” he said raggedly. “Trying to kill me, now, after all that effort you put into saving my life? Turn over darling, I want to see your face.”

This was difficult to do when still in the grips of her release; Wellington pulled out and flipped her over, in a shew of dexterity and strength that made Elizabeth dizzily exclaim, “Oh! How I love you, Arthur,” as soon as he entered her again.

He put his face to her neck and nipped at her pulse point. “I’m not going to last long when you say things like that.”

Elizabeth wrapped a leg around his waist and ran her hands up into his hair. The intensity of pleasure was beginning to fade into a sense of mellower contentment. She clutched his hair as she whispered into his ear, “Arthur, I love you. I told you, did I not, how easy it would be for me to fall in love with you?” Elizabeth pressed a feverish series of kisses to the hair by his temple and felt him tense with approaching climax.

“Yes, darling, yes,” he said, almost desperate, driving her into the mattress.

She rocked hard against him, astonished to find herself not coming down from her climax, but approaching it again, and with panting difficulty got out, “You rogue, Beau Wellesley; I am close again— you make a wanton of me, but I cannot regret it. I would do anything for you, for I love you.”

Wellington drove deeply into her and, with a hoarse noise, spilled into her. He bit down on her shoulder, causing her to seize about him again and fall after him into bliss. The sensations were agonizingly exquisite, and his hoarse, “I love you”s shattered what little composure she had left. She clung to him, her right arm about his shoulders, her left hand still tangled in his hair, and wept out her own declarations of love, refusing to let go even when he would have pulled out of her. She wanted him heavy atop her, anchoring her against the swells and tides and undertows of the complicated emotions that attended second attachments and adult passions. This was safe harbor, for both of them, after too long a time spent tempest-tossed.

“You really love me, Elizabeth?” he asked. There was a rawness to his tone, an unguardedness, an unthinking vulnerability to it, to his trembling hand upon her hair.

“With all my heart,” she wept into his bare shoulder.

“Oh sweetheart,” he whispered, pressing her to him, “I cannot begin to tell you all I feel for you.”

Elizabeth clung to him and said, “Arthur, I cannot bear to lose you.”

“You never shall. At least, you never shall if you remain such a master of improvisational weaponry.”

Elizabeth laughed and dried her tears on his shoulder.

Wellington held her tightly and said, “God, Elizabeth, the things I wish to say to you—”

“Say them!”

“Can’t,” he replied, kissing her, and gently raising himself off her. “Bloody Fouché’s coming by in a quarter of an hour, and I am not precisely dressed to receive him at present.”

“Make Lord Fitzroy talk to him,” said Elizabeth, still trying to cling to him. “Tell them your humors are out of balance and you cannot see anyone until they are restored.”

“Tempting,” said Wellington, chucking her under the chin. “But, my dear, given that a plot against my life very nearly succeeded, it behooves me to talk to the man in charge of all the _gendarmes_.”

Elizabeth reluctantly admitted the justice of this and fell back on the bed, admitting she was so worn out front the events of the day, and the vigor of his own attentions, she would probably be asleep as soon as he left. She did take care to ask, “Arthur, you know I meant all I said, do you not?”

He sat on the edge of her bed, to pull his boots back on, and flicked her cheek affectionately. “I know. It may take you some time to sort out exactly what it is you feel, but once you do, you can never hide it. God bless you for that honesty, my dear. I always know where I am with you. And I think—” He paused, and lovingly tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear, “I think, my dear, there is no sense in hiding that we love each other, not now. What possible objections can anyone level at you, when you have saved my life?”

This clicked home for Elizabeth, like a key fitting into a lock. The truth presented itself to her in almost baffling simplicity. No one could accuse her of being mercenary, now. Or, she thought to herself, they could, but there would be no sense or logic to that sort of remark. Not now. She had proved to herself not merely the extent of her own capabilities but the strength of her own feelings. Thus bolstered, she did not care enough about what the world said, in comparison with how much she loved.

 

***

 

Elizabeth fell into an exhausted sleep, and woke only when Mrs. Pattinson began to hammer on the door.

“I do beg your pardon,” Elizabeth said, stifling a yawn, and unlocking the door. “I, uh….” She drew her hastily-snatched-up dressing gown tighter across her bare breast and looked about her deranged chamber.

“Mrs. Fitzwilliam,” said Mrs. Pattinson, a little exasperatedly, “I don’t know how it is you can save a field marshal from assassins but have no ability to put yourself to bed on your own. Didn’t even braid your hair before you slept, did you?”

“No,” said Elizabeth meekly. “Mrs. Pattinson, what’s my nicest dinner gown?”

Mrs. Pattinson brought out a dress of floating white muslin, banded about the bust and sleeves with embroidered silver ribbon in a Grecian design, and forced Elizabeth’s hair into properly arranged curls. Elizabeth took out the emerald and pearl bracelet Wellington had given her for her birthday, and the matching earrings she had made out of the excess stones; a pearl circlet, white kid slippers, and a set of pearl combs nicely completed her ensemble.

She studied herself in the glass and applied a very liberal amount of rose salve to her lips.

“You look a treat, ma’am,” said Mrs. Pattinson, well satisfied. “I am glad you were feeling well enough to go down to dinner. Can’t let the French overset us.”

“No indeed,” said Elizabeth, pinching her cheeks. Her own eyelashes were dark— she had no need to apply a burnt cork to them as Jane did, but briefly considered it.

Mrs. Pattinson visibly struggled with herself and then said, “Ma’am, you saved his life today. He won’t fail to propose to you on account of your being a little pale.”

“I suppose it is more fashionable to be pale,” Elizabeth said, blushing rosily, and bringing the desired flush of color to her cheeks. “How—how long have you known…?”

“I knew since February our Atty would have you if he could, ma’am, and hadn’t any idea how you managed to hold out against him until you got to France.”

“Oh, well,” said Elizabeth, deeply embarrassed.

Mrs. Pattinson looked at her in mild surprise and then hastened to reassure her, “There ain’t a servant in Matlock House or this one what doesn’t know the Duke of Wellington would offer for you once you was out of mourning, ma’am. And why shouldn’t he, I always ask ‘em. _My_ lady is a _proper_ lady, none of these fancy pieces what betrays a man for their own benefit, or these weak, milk-and-water misses what faints and gives way at the first sign of trouble. No, she’s fixed in friendship she stays that way, and she’ll fight in a ballroom or a battlefield for ‘em equally well. Our Atty has learnt a very hard lesson about picking his ladies and now he knows better, he cannot do better than my lady. I hope I don’t overstep myself, ma’am.”

Elizabeth felt a rush of tears and affection. “I do not know what I did to deserve you, Mrs. Pattinson, or how I can repay such kindness and such loyalty.”

“I have always fancied being a lady’s maid to a titled lady,” said Mrs. Pattinson, detangling one of Elizabeth’s curls from her earring.

“That may be very easily and quickly accomplished,” said Elizabeth, “but for _you,_ Mrs. Pattinson, I wish to give _you_ some token of appreciation.”

“Well, since you did ask, ma’am— both me and Mr. Pattinson have been hoping for a holiday to see our daughter what’s in Ireland if you can spare us a fortnight. After you’re married, of course.” Then, pragmatically, “We wouldn’t have the right to puff ourselves up as much to our daughter’s friends if we couldn’t say we served the Duchess of Wellington.”

Elizabeth laughed and promised, and went down the steps. She came out just as the children were going up to have their own dinner served in the nursery, and though Miss Fairfax managed to keep her charges in marching order, Duoro and Charles broke from their tutor and rushed to her. They were confused and frightened enough to seize onto her skirts, both speaking at once, and not very intelligibly at that.

Elizabeth impulsively picked up Charles, which was not a terrifically good idea. Wellington always made it look easy to pick him up, but she did not have sufficient upper body strength to do more than embrace Charles tightly before setting him down again. Then she slid an arm around Duoro’s shoulders and adopted the lightly teasing tone that Wellington always used to reassure her, “What’s this? I suppose someone has told you about this morning? I hope they also told you that everyone is fine, except for a few little scratches that the doctors have seen to, and Copenhagen being in a bad temper.”

“The servants were all saying Papa got shot,” said Charles, tugging on Elizabeth’s skirts, to regain her attention. “We saw him, and his arm was all bandaged.”

“He told us not to mind all the noise and fuss,” said Duoro, “but— but….” Then all in a rush: “I don’t think that was very fair of him to ask, for everyone else minds. Our cousin Mrs. Somerset had a fit of the vapors and had to go lay down with smelling salts, and no one said anything to _her_ about not minding. And he is only her uncle, when he is our Papa, so I think we _do_ have a right to mind.”

Elizabeth glanced at the children’s tutor, who admitted, “His Grace came by before Minister Fouché arrived.”

“It is natural to be overset by such distressing news,” said Elizabeth. “I was myself, when it was happening.”

“They said you were there,” said Charles, with the unthinking faith in a nebulous ‘they’— representing anyone with authority— who arranged the world.

“I was,” confirmed Elizabeth.

“Told you,” said Charles to Douro. “Mrs. Fitz _was_ there, and bad things cannot happen to Papa when she is there.”

“That’s not _logical_ ,” said Duroro, contemptuously, which seemed even to Elizabeth’s untrained eye to signal a familiar argument. “You don’t understand probability.”

“We have moved from multiplication to logic and probability in their mathematical studies,” explained the tutor.

Charles protested, “Three times out of three Papa escaped because of Mrs. Fitzwilliam! The ball, and last night, and today! So that means I’m right!”

“No it doesn’t!” Duoro insisted. “That’s only three and you heard Papa, people have been after him for thirty years without getting him—“

“I do some work for the Foreign Office, so things are _less likely_ to end badly when I am about _these days_ ,” said Elizabeth. “So technically you are both right! And really, you had no notion I had any connection at all to the Foreign Office, as it is not a thing I regularly make public, so neither of you could have guessed at how matters really stood.” She was not sure if she was allowed to say this, but as she had discovered with their father, her love and concern for them outweighed her concern about the opinions of anyone else.

Neither boy was completely satisfied, but neither were they dissatisfied enough to keep arguing.

“But you both know that your father is fine, do you not? And the men responsible for the past three attempts have been arrested?”

“Yes,” said Duoro.

Charles turned impulsively to her and said, “We can come down after dinner, can’t we? Like usual? We could even come earlier, for the pudding. If you wanted.”

“A very selfless offer,” said Elizabeth, dryly. “Thank you Charles.”

“Lord Charles is a true philanthropist,” agreed the tutor, with a slight smile. “My Lord Duoro, Lord Charles, if you will come up?” The tutor turned and ascended the stairs to the nursery.

To Elizabeth’s surprise, Charles wrapped his arms about as much of her waist as he could manage and hugged her before dashing off. Duoro was more hesitant. Elizabeth put her arm about his shoulders again and squeezed lightly, saying, “I hope you were not made too anxious, Duoro.”

“I wasn’t, not really,” he said unconvincingly. “It’s only… it’s only he’s just got done with being at war. We never saw him when he was fighting in Spain. And now Mama’s off in Ireland and she’s got a baby with Mr. Jackson, or will soon, and….”

“Both your parents want always to be with you,” said Elizabeth, hoping she was doing right by saying so. “I probably shouldn’t mention it, but their fighting over who would have the privilege of having you with them all the year was as fierce a battle as any I’ve seen.” Duoro smiled a little at that. “And even when they cannot be with you because they have duties elsewhere, for your mother has her duty to Mr. Jackson, and your father his duty to the nation, that does not change the fact that they love you.”

“It was Mama he was avoiding, rather than us, wasn’t it?”

Elizabeth didn’t know how to answer _that_ , but her expression betrayed her belief as to the accuracy of Duoro’s statement.

“Is it very bad,” said Duroro, after a minute, “that I am a little glad they are divorced? Papa is happier and with us more and Mama, when we saw her— I think she is happier. She is not as sad and anxious.”

“It is not bad,” Elizabeth said. “It is only natural to wish your parents happy.”

“The servants always said they weren’t a true match. I think that was why they were not happy. But—“ Duoro looked hesitant “—your true match is dead, isn’t he, Mrs. Fitz?”

“Yes, and so is your father’s. In that way we are something of a match.”

Duoro looked at her curiously.

Elizabeth, realizing she had accidentally betrayed herself, colored and said, “I’ve detained you too long. Your tutor must be wondering where you are.”

Duoro turned when he was on the second step up to the nursery and asked, curiously, “If you came to live with us, always, would we play at guerillas or cricket every day?”

“Most days, I’m sure.”

“And you’d read to us?”

“Certainly.”

“And Papa would be happy?”

“I would do my very best to make him so.”

Duoro nodded, well satisfied with this, and went up the stairs. Elizabeth, a little flustered from this encounter, felt herself unequal to meeting the others. She saw Marjorie in the hall and said, “I think I shall walk in the garden for a little bit, while the others gather.”

Marjorie said, sympathetically, “After the day you’ve had, I wouldn’t blame you for taking dinner on a tray in your room. Did you really shoot an assassin?”

“Only in the wrist.”

“Oh, only the wrist,” said Marjorie, dryly. “That hardly counts at all. You may as well have never even picked up a pistol.”

Elizabeth laughed.

“You might want to take a look at the roses,” said Marjorie. “I know you like them, and they are in season. Mrs. Somerset was just telling me the gardener does wonders with them.”

Elizabeth thought this a wonderful idea, as it involved facing precisely none of her in-laws. She was drawn to the roses, anyhow, for they were were blown open, perfuming the air and exposing their delicate inner hearts to the summer sun. She ran her fingertips over their velvety petals, carefully avoiding the thorns. It was no wonder, she thought, observing all the bushes and trees carefully landscaped about her, that the Empress Josephine had become a patroness of roses. It was said that roses were the only things Napoleon allowed through the blockade, and that they all made their way to Josephine’s gardens at Malmaison. It was odd to think of a lover-like Napoleon, when Elizabeth’s current hopes rested all with Wellington. Idly, Elizabeth wondered if ever Josephine had shot anyone who had tried to kill Napoleon, and decided that Josephine certainly must have been tempted.

Elizabeth turned and pulled down a branch of tree roses to better smell them.

She felt a hand at her waist, and when she leaned automatically into the touch, recognizing the hand as Wellington's from a thousand infinitesimal tells, she was embraced from behind, and kissed on the neck.

Closing her eyes and sighing, Elizabeth said, “I really hope that is you, Arthur, or I shall have exposed myself to terrible ridicule.”

“How fortunate for you it is me,” he said, sounding amused. “Lady Stornoway told me you were out here. I was just thinking, my dear— do you recall the last time I surprised you by some roses? At Matlock House, I mean, some months back.”

“Yes, and I should blush to admit how often I think on it. I never knew until then that it could be so…” Elizabeth colored and leaned back against him, enjoying the soft trail of kisses down the line of her jaw. “Oh! I can’t speak coherently when you do that, Beau Wellesley.”

“Ah, sweet girl,” he whispered. “It was about then I suspected I was in far deeper than I anticipated. You speak of my being easy to fall in love with, but you, my dear… ha! I’ve been less stunned by full canonades.”

Elizabeth managed a breathless laugh and turned about in his arms. Wellington had put on full uniform, to intimidate Fouché and any other Bonapartist that dared approach, but Elizabeth felt unspeakably drawn to him. She placed her palms flat against his chest and smiled up at him.

Wellington then noticed her bracelet and smiled, “Still like it?”

“Oh yes, very much. In fact, I think it my favorite piece. _Today_ it is my favorite piece.”

“Because it so brings out the color of your eyes?”

She laughed. “Ridiculous man! It is because you gave it me.”

“Ha!”

“Is— is all well? Your sons were a little unsettled so I did my best with them, but….”

“All is relatively well,” he replied. “I have just been to see Duoro and Charles, the latter of whom sternly enjoined me to take you on as an aide-de-camp, as it has been mathematically proven I cannot die when you are about. Duoro’s recommendation I am more inclined to take. He believes I ought not to take you into my staff, but to my household. He counseled me, very seriously, to think of marrying you.”

Elizabeth colored. “Did he now?”

“He is a clever boy for his age, don’t you think? Ah! Before I forget— the French are rather pleased with how this whole affair has shaken out. Our two friends of this morning have proven the key to an underground Bonapartist ring they have been trying to ferret out ever since Boney left for St. Helena.”

Elizabeth stared at him. “Was Talleyrand deliberately using you to lure them out?”

“One can never prove Talleyrand's done anything, but it seems the likeliest solution to me. I cannot say I really appreciate his risking my life without my being aware of it, and endangering yours as well, but Pumphrey told me that I should take this in light of a compliment. Talleyrand has so high an opinion of my ability to thwart death, of Pumphrey’s abilities, or your competence and regard for me, that it was a risk he felt no compunction in taking. All I can say with certainty, my dear—“ his grip tightening about her “—is that I should have been dead without you.”

Elizabeth could not help her shiver and said, “Thank God Colonel Fitzwilliam taught me to shoot. I know I said it before, but I couldn’t have borne it if I lost you.”

Wellington gently touched the underside of her chin with a fingertip and tilted up her face. Her heartbeat quickened. “And why is that?”

Elizabeth dropped her hands to her side, feeling embarrassed. “Surely you know!”

“Yes, but it gives me such pleasure to hear it.” Then, lightly, “And, my dear, you have never said it fully clothed.”

“Because I… I have fallen very much in love with you, Your Grace.”

“Oh, my love,” he said, and his very tone was a caress. Wellington brushed his lips over hers, achingly sweet, and so infinitely gentle. The tenderness of it brought tears to her eyes.

The kiss felt oddly like a first. There was a newness to it, a freshness, a sense that something new and special and wondrous was being expressed by the touch of his lips to her own. Her breath caught in her throat; she felt giddy and strange, so caught up in him— and all this from so light a touch, so soft and so gentle. Elizabeth marveled at herself, as much as at the kiss. When he slowly pulled away, she felt a sense of wonder tinged with euphoria. She kept her eyes closed for a moment, almost afraid to break so fine, so delicate a happiness, almost afraid to think she had been only dreaming his kiss, of this sweetness between them. The darkness was falling, and as she opened her eyes, Elizabeth had the impression of having drawn a fragrant curtain about herself and Wellington. In the dusk she could not see what flowers were at their feet or on the bows; she could tell only that the evening roses were in full bloom, mingling with the softer scents of other, unknown summer blossoms, lush and heady. It was comforting; as she could not see, she could not be seen. There was no barrier between them; only between them and the world.

When at last she raised her eyes to his face, he had on the crooked half-smile she considered her exclusive property, and he regarded her with a profound and obvious tenderness. There was so much of love in such an expression— she had always seen it but only guessed at the depth. Now she felt it, sunk into it, luxuriated in it, revelled in the knowledge that she was loved and loved thoroughly. In the security of this, her “Arthur, I love you,” rose as naturally to her lips as fresh water to a spring. Her feelings overflowed her; they could be expressed in no other way.

Wellington— Arthur— she mentally corrected herself— spread his fingers, cupped her cheek in his hand. “Oh my sweet girl, my darling, my Elizabeth—” He ran the pad of his thumb over her cheek. “Did I even know what love was ‘til you?”

He seemed to realize this was a question she could not answer, but briefly leaned his forehead against hers, as if drawing courage from the touch before asking one to which she could reply: “I know this has already been far too eventful a day, but we might as well recall it with more pleasure than pain.” He drew back to meet her eyes, and oh, how his look made her melt. Arthur asked, softly, “Elizabeth, will you marry me?”

Her heartfelt elation at this could not be contained; she knew not how many times she giddily exclaimed, “Yes!” or how she came to be kissing him, but found that she was, and that she was incandescently happy.


	15. In which all ends happily

At dinner, Arthur enjoyed being mysterious and deftly avoiding questions from his household as to why he was in such an ebullient mood after so dangerous an attempt on his life. “Unless I am very seriously mistaken, I survived,” Arthur said, cheerfully serving up the leg of lamb he’d carved. “Priscilla, talk to the chef again, will you? He insists on ruining perfectly good meat by drowning it in sauces.”

“Of course, Uncle,” she said, “but really— surely you have more important considerations. What if the man should come after you again?”

“Even the current French government is not as incompetent as all that,” said Arthur. “And, as Charles has informed me, it is a mathematical impossibility for me to die while Mrs. Fitz is around.”

An uneasy titter of laughter spread about the table.

“I did very little,” protested Elizabeth who was seated beside him as usual.

Arthur looked down at her fondly. “Oh yes, merely saving my life and averting outbreak of another global war. Very little indeed, my dear. The Foreign Office will be dreadfully upset with you.”

She glanced at him warningly.

Mrs. Somerset, who was really very upset over the whole ordeal, interrupted, “Uncle Arthur, really! The Fitzwilliams will return to England in July and what will you do then?”

“Go and fetch Mrs. Fitzwilliam back,” he said promptly. Arthur set down the carving knife and said, in an airy, only slightly smug tone, “I have to take the boys to Mrs. Jackson and her husband in August, after all.”

Lady Burghersh said, with fond exasperation, “Uncle, you cannot kidnap Mrs. Fitzwilliam because Charles doesn’t understand probability.”

“No,” said Arthur, “but I can go fetch my wife, can I not? What say you to being married in England, in August, Elizabeth, my dear?”

Elizabeth feigned indecision, tapping a finger against her chin, as the rest of the table tried to figure out if the Duke of Wellington had really just proposed to Elizabeth in the middle of carving a leg of lamb. “I would prefer to be married in France in June, but I suppose the outcry would be too great.”

“Darling girl,” he said, with a fond smile, “I admire your dispatch, but really. Married in  _ France _ . Don’t ask such a dreadful thing of me. What say we marry in July, but in London?”

Elizabeth laughed. She could not help it. She was too happy to express her feelings any other way. “A very reasonable compromise, Your Grace. You have become  _ such _ a politician!”

“What?” Mrs. Somerset asked blankly. 

“Emily, my dear, Mrs. Fitz has agreed to marry me,” said Arthur, turning to smile at Elizabeth, with an aspect of pure contentment. “In July, in London, apparently.” 

“This is an odd joke, sir,” Lord Fitzroy said, flummoxed, though the Fitzwilliams were all nudging each other and looking pleased and smug. 

“It’s no joke,” said Arthur, taking Elizabeth’s hand from where it rested on the table and raising it to his lips. “Mrs. Fitzwilliam did me the great honor of accepting my proposal perhaps half-an-hour ago, in the rose garden. We are engaged.” 

The table erupted into loud congratulations, and at least two exclamations of, “I knew it!” which then settled into various wishes for happiness and questions about weddings and honeymoons and the like. Indeed, the announcement of their engagement did not come as a surprise to anyone, after the initial surprise that Elizabeth had agreed to it so soon after her year and a day of mourning. Almost everyone was eager to claim responsibility for the engagement, during dinner and afterwards. Elizabeth laughingly gave Duoro credit after dinner, which caused him to swell with pride and strut about the drawing room like a military parade of one; and privately thought that Marjorie, who acted as if she had no role in the proceedings whatever, was honestly the only person who could claim an interest aside from Elizabeth and Arthur. It had been to Marjorie Elizabeth had turned with her questions and scruples, Marjorie who had covered for her and smoothed her way, Marjorie to whom she knew she would turn when taking on all the social and political tasks that came with being a Duchess.

She tried to convey this, while Arthur was cheerfully discussing legal matters with the Earl, the Wellesley- Pole nieces were playing duets on the piano, and everyone else was trying to find out if they had predicted the match before anyone else. Marjorie merely laughed and looked innocent, saying that all she did was facilitate that which seemed very likely to come to pass in some form or other.

“I can never repay all your kind assistance,” Elizabeth began.

“Oh hush,” said Marjorie, patting her hand. “I told you, didn’t I, how long I have felt the want of an ally?”

“Yes,” said Elizabeth, and recalled, laughing, “and you also told me you had a grand plan to win Wellington to the Whigs, back when he was surprised by his divorce. Was this part of it?”

“Not initially, no, and I do doubt he will ever  _ call  _ himself a Whig— but you will continue to call  _ yourself  _ one, I hope?”

“Of course— though first I shall call myself the happiest of women at present. And I do think I have a right to it, considering all I have been through.” She listened a moment to the duet, and let her gaze wander over to Arthur. He still looked rather pleased with himself, as he leaned on the mantle, listening to Lord Matlock and though Lizzy felt his somewhat smug air ought to annoy her, she was too dizzyingly happy to be anything but charmed by it. “I do wonder, Marjorie, if you knew long before I did.”

“I knew he was interested in you long before you did,” Marjorie said, “for you spent all January denying it.”

“I meant, if you knew that Arthur and I would marry. I’m sure you planned for it.”

“It is always difficult to answer questions about what I have and haven't planned for, for I am always tweaking my plans as circumstances change, or new possibilities present themselves; indeed I never have only  _ one plan _ . I do think… hm. I did think immediately after his divorce that His Grace should content himself to a single, discreet liaison with a trusted friend, and I realized he liked you, and that you might be up to the challenge after your set down to Mrs. Willoughby. I think it was a little after that horrible village fete of Lady Jersey’s where I realized he liked you a great deal more than he had any of his other mistresses. But it was the note he gave you that really convinced me you might marry. It was not difficult to discover he had never acted like this before, never written such things to anyone else. And I knew you were taken with him. From there marriage seemed a very likely outcome.”

Arthur signaled to her, with a faint tilt of his head; Elizabeth rose and looked quizzically at Marjorie. Arthur nodded.

“I think we are both being summoned.”

“Ah,” said Marjorie, brightening. “Battle plans.”

“My dear,” said Arthur, as they approached, “your father-in-law has suggested we hold a rout-party as soon as the Foreign Office thinks I won’t be murdered, and get all the congratulations out of the way.” 

Routs were Elizabeth’s least favorite form of social interaction, as unlike a ball or a card party or a dinner party, the only object of them was to cram as many people as possible into the room, make them elbow their way through rooms denuded of furniture in a very slowly moving circuit for half-an-hour before departing. 

“Well,” she said uncertainly, looking to Marjorie.

“I think it a good idea,” said Marjorie. “It shall be very exhausting, but you shall get it out of the way, with maximum exposure and minimal expense. One here in Paris and then one at… I suppose you might open up Apsley House, Your Grace? Or perhaps we might useMatlock House for the purpose?”

“It would be better at Matlock House,” opined the Earl. 

“I’ll arrange it,” said Marjorie, composedly; and the rest of the evening passed in planning. 

Elizabeth and Arthur were two of the last to retire to bed, and he gently seized her by the left wrist and drew her towards him when they were alone in the drawing room.

“Oh Your Grace,” said Elizabeth, glancing at the open door, but making no move to escape. “What  _ will  _ people say if they see us?”

“That the Duke of Wellington has done very well for himself,” he replied, placing her arm about his waist. 

“I’m shocked you’re not dead on your feet,” said Elizabeth, resting her right hand on his chest. 

“Second wind,” Arthur replied. “It’s not every day a man’s proposal of marriage is accepted by so lovely a woman as you, my dear.” He put a finger to her chin and tilted her face up, and looked at her smilingly, every feature radiating contentment. “I almost feel inclined to dance the flamenco. But, as that would require my letting go of you, I must resist the impulse.”

“That is praise indeed! I shall always treasure the knowledge that you are as happy at becoming engaged to me as by hearing of Napoleon’s abdication.”

“Minx,” he said, tracing the curve of her lower lip with his thumb. “Give your maid the night off, will you?”

“Oh sir,” Elizabeth teased. “What  _ will  _ my fiancé say if I admit you to my chambers tonight?”

“‘Thank you,’ on top of all his usual nonsense,” he replied dryly. 

Elizabeth laughed. 

Arthur pressed his thumb against the seam of her lips, until she kissed it. “Sweet girl, you don’t mean to lock me out until I’ve made an honest woman of you, do you?”

Elizabeth shook her head, smiling. “You are a rogue, Beau Wellesley.”

“And you love me for it,” he replied, with an easy smile.

“God help me, I do.” 

When he came to her that evening, there was a different quality to his kiss, to his touch. Elizabeth was hard put to explain it, and so continued to kiss him, trying to determine what had changed. It was a playfulness, almost, and yet there was a contentedness to it. Arthur was pleased to kiss longer than was their habit, running his hands up and down her body as if mapping her anew. But when he tossed her onto the bed with his usual strength and mastery, and held her wrists pinned above her head with one hand, she still was no closer to interpreting that inexplicable quality that now tinged this physical manifestation of his affection.

“What is it, my sweet girl?” he asked, pausing. 

“Arthur,” she said, startled, “could it be you are enjoying yourself?”

“Really, my dear,” he said, pulling back to look down at her. “You’ve been my mistress since  _ February  _ and only now do you realize I  _ enjoy myself  _ when I am in your bed?”

She laughed. “I phrased that very ill indeed! Your mood is… different, that is all. In a less dignified man I might call it ebullience.” 

Arthur flicked her cheek affectionately with his free hand. “Sweetheart, that giddiness is all due to you. I never thought anyone would love me as you do. And now I may flaunt it before all the world. Take that, Boney! You may be the best soldier of the age, but do you have the most charming creature in England vowing to love you all your days? Do  _ you  _ have a real partner for life?”

“Oh Arthur,” she said, melting. “I would embrace you, but you’ve got me pinned.”

“Indeed, I think I should like to have you tied,” he said musingly. “What would you say to that, my sweet girl?”

“Oh  _ yes _ ,” Elizabeth replied, flushing, “but really Arthur— you… I know you often compare yourself to Bonaparte but I don’t know  _ why _ . I am admittedly biased in your favor, since you  _ are  _ to be my husband, but you did defeat Bonaparte. Figuratively in that you seduced his mistresses and, by the by, Arthur, I do expect you to give that up permanently—“

“A very easy sacrifice, I assure you,” he said, releasing her and whipping off the silken belt of his dressing gown. “I’ve never  _ enjoyed myself  _ more with a woman than with you. I didn’t think it before but it makes a difference when you love the person to whom you are making love.”

“Wretch!” But she held out her hands to be tied. 

“I do mean it,” Arthur said, looping the silk about her wrists. “Make sure you can get out of that if you need to. Yes— here, let me loosen it a little. Better? Good. Elizabeth, I know you are the sort of woman who likes to be adored. And rightfully so. I shall be so doting a husband you will soon grow tired of me.”

“I could never,” she cried. 

“You’re a voracious one, too; I can’t imagine how I’d have the time or energy to satisfy anyone else.”

“Arthur!“

“Even when you say my name in that thoroughly annoyed tone of voice I find it endearing,” Arthur said, and pulling her towards him by her bound hands, kissed her thoroughly. “Elizabeth,” he said, voice low and rough. “I promise it will only be you. It has been, and I have never been happier. Do you think you could be content with only me?”

“All my days,” Elizabeth replied. Then blushingly, “Arthur do you think perhaps you could— earlier today, when you took me from behind— I liked that very much indeed.” 

“Have you any objection to my tying your hands to the bedpost as I do so?”

She eagerly agreed to this plan.

“Look how far you’ve come, sweet girl,” Arthur marveled, kissing the back of her neck, before tying her wrists to the bedpost. “When we first began you couldn’t even bring yourself to even speak of making love except in blushes and ellipses, and now—“

“By the time we are married a year I shall beg you to do the most depraved things to me every night.”

He raised her shift. “Do you promise, my dear?”

Before she could answer, he slid into her, and for some time, Elizabeth was quite incapable of speech. It was not the rushed and frantic coupling of earlier that day, that mad rush to prove the continued physical existence of the other. He took his time, teasing her, touching her, and for all his roughness, there was an underlying quality of care to it. He touched her cherishingly; a study in contrasts enough for Elizabeth to quite forget everything but him, and the pleasure he was so determined to give her. It was not long before he achieved his objective, and she had to bury her face in the crook of her arm to stifle her cry. He followed not long after and Elizabeth, in the giddy breathlessness that sometimes visited her after her peak, entertained the foolish thought that she was so grateful her fiancé was a gentleman in this too, and always insisted the lady go before the gentleman. 

“You’ve distracted me,” she said, when she could breathe again. Arthur fondly stroked her hair with one hand, the other still gripping her hip, still recovering from his own release. “I… what was my point. I’m sure I had one.”

“I hardly recall.”

“Oh! It was about Napoleon.”

He tugged lightly on her braid. “I’m sorry to say, my dear, that my ex-wife couldn’t be convinced to take the nude statue of Napoleon as Mars in the entry hall, during the divorce, and you will have to live with it, as the Prince Regent gave it me.”

“ _ Why _ ?”

“It’s a question I have often asked myself. At least he makes for a good hatrack. That straw hat you wore at Lady Jersey’s fete would suit him charmingly, don’t you think?”

“Really, Arthur, you beat the man at Waterloo, you needn’t dress him up in my bonnets too.” 

“It was a damn close run thing. You cannot blame me for wanting to cement the victory as much as possible, considering how high a cost we paid. In all honesty, mud made all the difference between my victory and my defeat.” He had been engaged in pulling out, and moving to untie her, but paused at her semi-hysterical fit of laughter. “My fiancée laughs at me! Whatever for?”

“You do not understand the deep spiritual connection I have to mud,” Elizabeth choked out, against against her outstretched arms, still laughing. “I cannot go any length of time outdoors without being covered in it.” 

He untied her and kissed the insides of her wrists. “Clearly, my love, ours is partnership destined for success.” 

 

***

 

The rout in Paris was what Marjorie happily called “a sad crush,” in which Elizabeth did not really get to talk to anyone and mostly just repeated the same four phrases about being very happy, about marrying in London later in the summer, about going to the Empress Josephine’s favorite modiste tomorrow in order to bespeak a wedding gown (which, she did not add, was both a present from her future husband and a concession to him), and about being very glad to be browsing books on the Quai Voltaire when an assassin attacked her fiancé. The only really interesting thing she learnt was that everyone thought when the Duke of Wellington referred to her having saved his life, they assumed it was because she bound up his arm after he had been shot. There was no mention of her having a pistol, of interacting with assassins at all, or doing anything but using her fichu as an improvised bandage. 

She quizzed Lord Pumphrey about it when he arrived. “It is strange that the operative of yours who shot at the assassin seems to be an entirely unknown person.”

“Not really,” said Lord Pumphrey. “My secret-keeping here is to the purpose. Do you know why?”

“Is the entryway a good place for a final lesson?”

“Yes, for Carter is causing a commotion outdoors and we shan’t be disturbed for at least five minutes. And really, I would not call it a final lesson, for I hope you will continue on learning. Do know this, however: it is never a bad thing when your enemy underestimates you.” 

Elizabeth very much disliked when people underestimated her. She was not particularly thrilled by this admonition.

Lord Pumphrey eyed the crowd and adjusted his cuffs as if he were a gladiator, about to enter the arena. Out of the corner of his mouth, he said, “Also consider, my dear Mrs. Fitzwilliam, you are marrying a man whom all European powers have decided is the fulcrum upon which the current balance of powers rests. Kick out the fulcrum and balance tips one way or another. Do you want all these interested parties to plan to seperate you, or keep you from him, so that he is vulnerable, or do you prefer to have them discount you and not realize you are the reserves he has lying in wait? He did have those at Waterloo?”

“I am the mud of the battlefield of Waterloo,” said Elizabeth, in a dramatic whisper.

Beside her, Arthur turned from watching the doorway to eye her with amusement. “What on earth are you saying to my fiancée, Pumps?”

“Just alerting her to the realities of the situation she is marrying into.”

As the entryway was momentarily deserted, Arthur placed a hand on the small of Elizabeth's back, both reassuringly and possessively. “As you quite mistook matters between us before, I do wonder, Pumps, if your take on it is of any value.” 

Lord Pumphrey said, “Well Nosey, you can’t blame me for thinking as I did, since you went to such lengths to conceal it. Besides, what I thought was what all England thought. Famous rake wishes to add to his stable of mistress an English rose known for her virtue and utter devotion to her husband. Just the sort of challenge to appeal to a man used to campaigning and conquering. Success was unlikely, for the lady had moved from being the apple of her father’s eye to being worshiped by her soulmate and husband, and a woman such as that— a very  _ good  _ sort of woman, as other women describe her— would never be happy with but part of a man’s heart. How was I to know you could come up to scratch for so a high stickler as a  _ Fitzwilliam _ ?”

“What a flattering portrait of me and my character,” said Arthur. “I shall go to you instead of Sir Joshua Reynolds when next I am in need of one.” 

Elizabeth had to hide her smile in her gloved hands, then looked up at Arthur, eyes dancing. “Here I was, worried for months everyone would say I wasn’t good enough for you, or that I should make a very poor Duchess, when everyone is more concerned  _ you  _ shall make me a very bad husband!”

“Ha,” said Arthur, a little sourly. 

Lord Pumphrey said, “And now the thrilling conclusion to the public’s speculations! Having realized he could not make her a mistress the Duke of Wellington began to think of Mrs. Fitzwilliam as a wife. The more he looked, the more he realized what a good idea it would be to marry a lady held up in Parliament to be the exemplar of a soldier’s wife. Mrs. Fitzwilliam had no such ideas in mind until after her mourning ended and His Grace asked to pay his addresses. Everything very shipshape and aboveboard. And when he saw for himself how good you were in a crisis, my dear, how loyal, how brave— for I’ve let people think you ran to His Grace before we caught the assassin and very bravely risked being shot at to save his life, for no one really understands how pistol shots work— and so Lord Wellington proposed that very day. So far no one’s questioned your accepting, for really, would would dare refuse such a great man even if they wished to—“

“You might as well tell part of the truth, and say I accepted him because I loved him,” said Elizabeth.

“My sweet girl,” said Arthur, soft and fond.

Lord Pumphrey looked exasperated and amused. “You’ve done much better for yourself than I could have anticipated, Nosey. Congratulations. I expect, with Mrs. Fitzwilliam as a wife, we shall sooner or later see you as Prime Minister.”

“It’s a thought,” said Arthur, looking fondly down at Elizabeth. “For really, my dear, I have fits of total lunacy knowing you love me, and really do believe anything is possible.”

Lord Pumphrey looked heavenward, both amused and exasperated with them, and plunged into the rout, head held high. 

“Do you really mean that, Arthur?” Elizabeth teased him. 

“I do,” he said, smiling at her. “I never thought to love like this was possible and yet, here it is. What else shall we manage to do, my dear?”

“I shall settle for surviving two such routs,” Elizabeth said wryly. “Then we shall see.” 

 

***

 

Elizabeth refused to leave Paris until her dress was completed, which was her first attempt at strategy. To everyone who asked she could give the very true and very simple reason that literally every person who saw her on her wedding day would report upon her gown; to no one but Arthur and Lord Pumphrey did she admit that the real reason was that she and Marjorie needed several weeks to plot their campaign.

“Becoming a peeress is not an easy thing,” said Marjorie. “After your honeymoon, you are expected to go to a drawing room, to be presented as a married lady, and then to visit every society hostess then in London. At least I can help with the latter two, if Lord Wellington’s mother will not do it with you.”

“Oh God,” said Elizabeth. “And when I am come to France again, I shall have diplomatic duties as well. So far my mourning has been excuse enough…”

“One step at a time,” said Marjorie. “Let us focus first on your family and his. Have they all been alerted?”

“Yes. My father of course, has not yet answered. My mother’s letter is incoherent but I hope indicative of joy rather than an apoplexy, and my sister Jane wrote more reasonably of her hopes that she will be in London for the ceremony. Arthur’s family seems… less surprised. I think that is Lord Mornington’s work.”

“Really?”

Elizabeth contented herself with, “He’s had his suspicions from the beginning, I think. I am not sure I can rely upon the Dowager Countess of Mornington to be very helpful, however. Arthur had a note from his mother when our engagement was announced in the papers— she didn’t reply to his letter. Arthur thought it amusing, though I found it rather depressing.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, it was all of four lines: Dear Arthur, You seem to have made a better choice this time, for at least her soulmate is definitively dead. I hope you will not live to regret this choice as well. Your mother, the Dowager Countess of Mornington.”

Marjorie blinked. “Charming woman, your mother-in-law.”

“She also said Arthur was fit for nothing but canon fodder, so I do not put much stock in her opinions,” Elizabeth said dryly. “One of his brothers is Ambassador to Spain and cannot leave his post but he sent a very nice letter, and a case of port; all the others have promised to attend. I am….” She considered this a moment. “Not… uneasy, for his siblings are so scattered I think I shall seldom see them, and aside from the Dowager Countess they have all been very kind, but it is a little intimidating to… reconcile past and future.” She tried to rephrase this. “I feel I am so changed from Miss Elizabeth Bennet, I… I have not thought very much about my parents or my sisters and how they might react to my marrying a second time. I doubt Lydia will even hear I am engaged until after I am long married, for she is in China, at present and, last I heard, sailing up the Yangzhou River. I think part of my problem is that I would have happily jumped off the cliffs of Dover before letting any of them know how matters really stood between myself and the Duke of Wellington all this spring and so I just… put them all in the same mental box in which I put all my childish things and hoped that they would not come out to ask any questions.”

“Well, I can think of one way to distract them immediately when they first see you,” said Marjorie. “Write to your parents’ housekeeper and to your eldest sister’s husband and see if you can get the pattern cards of your mother and sisters. Commission dresses for them here.”

This Elizabeth did, for a truly exasperating sum of money, but she contented herself in the knowledge that at least her fiancé was paying for  _ her  _ gown, and she had enough new things, only a year old but never worn, that she need not purchase a whole new wardrobe. A further blessing arrived from the King of Spain, who, having been told she had worn a mantilla of black Spanish lace all through her mourning, sent her a beautiful white mantilla, and a hair comb of brilliants for her wedding. It saved Elizabeth the expense and headache of trying to settle on a proper hat, besides being remarkably pretty. She penned a very pretty note of thanks, in Spanish a little more phonetic than correct and spent rather too long trying it on in her room and staring at the effect in the mirror. 

Not all royals were, however, displayed their beneficence or their gratitude for Arthur’s military prowess in so actually useful a fashion. As soon as Elizabeth set foot in England, she was waited upon by the Prince Regent. Or rather— as soon as it was known she was at home and the Prince Regent had sobered up enough to act upon this information. Elizabeth and Arthur had embarked on their habitual morning ride through St. James’s Park, Elizabeth still feeling vaguely sea-sick and out-of-sorts, and Arthur in something of a mood because the Jacksons would not come to London to fetch Duoro and Charles, due to Kitty Jackson’s pregnancy, and this had resulted in a number of difficult logistical renegotiations.

“The tutor has already gone to Switzerland to visit with his family and we shall not see him again until we return to Paris in September,” Arthur said, annoyed. “And though the boys are enjoying this reprieve, with only a nursemaid and footman to mind them, I cannot entrust two servants I hardly know with the safety of my sons and heirs.”

Elizabeth tried to rouse herself from her lethargy. “We could take the boys.”

“And honeymoon in Ireland? Good God, no. I never set foot in Ireland if I can help it, and I most emphatically do not wish to start the happiest chapter of my life in  _ Killarney _ .”

“What’s wrong with Killarney, darling?”

“If you have to ask, my dear, you are not ready to know.”

“What about one of your aides?”

“I cannot spare the ones I trust and I cannot send ones I don’t.”

“Ah,” said Elizabeth. “I’ve a solution. It is not… ideal, but it might be workable. My maid and her husband wish to go to Ireland to visit their daughter. Why do we not ask them to see the boys there and back again? I shall have to be without my maid for a full month, which will be a sore trial, but I think she would be happy to spend so long a time with her daughter, especially if I paid her wages in full the entire time and we send them in your coach. Marjorie was making noises anyhow, about lending me her French maid for the rounds of visits I’ll have to make once we return from our honeymoon. I trust Mrs. Pattinson with my life. Indeed, I did literally do so at least twice when we were in Spain. And she and her husband were so helpful with Copenhagen during the whole divorce….”

Copenhagen flicked his tail.

“That they were,” mused Arthur. “Alright. I shall have to send an aide as well, so that my children aren’t traveling with only a maid and a footman, but I can send an aide I am less familiar with if such loyal soldiers as the Pattinsons are there. I do think that most officers are useless without a good sergeant anyhow.” 

“Arthur,” said Elizabeth, “perhaps Poseidon is bored with making me merely nauseous and has struck me with madness, but that… coach. I suppose it is a coach. It is following us, isn’t it?” She hesitated to call it a coach. It was so gaudy she thought it more resembled a punch bowl on wheels. 

“Oh God,” said Arthur, grimacing. “It’s Prinny. And here’s Colonel McMahon. Colonel, how d’ye do?”

“Very well sir, I thank you,” said the Prince Regent’s aide-de-camp, riding over to them. “The Prince Regent saw you riding by, and wished to take the morning air with you, and to congratulate you and your lovely fiancée—“ with a bow to Elizabeth “—on your engagement.”

Arthur conveyed in a glance and a half-stifled sigh that this couldn’t be helped and they better go. Elizabeth followed with ill grace and was made a little more cheerful when Arthur put his hands to her waist to help her off her horse, and kept a hand on her waist thereafter. 

“My dear Lord Wellington!” the Prince Regent cried. 

“Your Royal Highness.” Arthur bowed and Elizabeth curtsied. 

The Prince Regent vaulted from his carriage. Or at least, attempted to. The effect was much more ridiculous than anyone could have anticipated, and Elizabeth was frozen in equal parts amusement and incredulity. 

“Oh my dear, dear lady!” the Prince Regent cried, and seizing her by the shoulders, loudly and wetly kissed both her cheeks. Elizabeth did not enjoy it. “My  _ sincerest _ congratulations! Oh dear lady, I was just saying to Mahon, wasn’t I—” turning to his aide-de-camp “—wasn’t I saying that I hoped Mrs. Fitzwilliam would not keep holding off our dear Wellington with such cruel persistence? The poor man has suffered so, he deserves a little happiness. And dear lady—” his eyes welling with tears “—so have you! Ah, I shall not forget the gallant sacrifice your soulmate made for England. Indeed I shall not. Though I am very glad to hear you shall marry dear Wellington. You will be married at St. George’s, will you not? When is the date?”

Before she could answer, or even mentally sort through such an onslaught of questions, the Prince Regent turned rapturously to Arthur.

“Oh, Your Grace! My dear sir!” The Prince Regent kissed Arthur in the same manner as Elizabeth.

Arthur stoically endured it. 

“You shall be so happy with such a wife! Where shall you have your wedding breakfast— I suppose Matlock House? Of course, Mrs. Fitzwilliam will be married out of Matlock House. But that does not sit right with me. No, no, I insist upon hosting it. You must have everyone come to Carleton House!”

“That is far too kind,” Elizabeth protested weakly.

“It is the very least I can do after all that the two of you have sacrificed for England.”

“You really shouldn’t, Your Majesty,” said Arthur. 

But he did. Every single morning thereafter he invited himself to their rides and sketched out increasingly elaborate plans for their wedding breakfast, until it took on the aspect of a coronation ball rather than a wedding breakfast. This was not to either of their tastes, but neither of them could come up with the proper method of respectful rejection.

“Well,” said Marjorie, philosophically, hearing of this problem, “at least it’s one less thing for you to plan. And it might count as your being presented at a drawing room. The Queen is attending, I think you said?” 

“All of the royal family wants their share of what amusements they can get out of my wedding,” said Elizabeth. “The Prince Regent was telling me how Princess Caroline had been making noises about attending. I do feel dreadfully sorry for the poor woman, she cannot be held at fault for having so terribly mismatched a husband, but I would rather not have a repeat of the Delicate Investigation at my wedding breakfast.”

This being the Parliamentary investigation into whether or not Princess Caroline had been unfaithful to the Prince Regent and could be divorced on those grounds. 

“Hm. I’ll ask about and see if we can run into Princess Caroline accidentally somehow this week. Then you can humbly beg permission to call upon her when you are returned from your honeymoon. Speaking of those visits, I’ve drawn up a list with Lady Melbourne’s help, and will take you around myself. Make sure you have a different spencer and morning gown every day for two weeks. You might want to commission a few more tomorrow, so that they will be ready for your return. Then I suppose you and Wellington have honeymoon plans?”

“Oh Lord,” said Elizabeth, “I’m not sure we do. Kitty Jackson’s too ill to come get Charles and Duoro, so we’ve been rather caught up in all that—”

“There’s your task,” said Marjorie. “Then His Royal Highness has your wedding breakfast well in hand and then there’s the rout party.”

“Oh I hate those,” said Elizabeth.

“Darling, they’re part of the price of political celebrity,” said Marjorie. “Get used to it.”

 

***

 

Before the rout in England, there were her parents to inform, and her sisters to gather, and the Earl of Matlock very generously offered to host them all at Matlock House. It Would Not Do to have the Duchess of Wellington’s parents staying at an address near Cheapside. He did not, however, have sufficient bedrooms for all his Fitzwilliam relations and all the Bennets, and Jane and Bingley were coming to Apsley House. Awkward as it might be to have to see her sister and brother-in-law at the breakfast table, following a wedding night where she knew she would get very little sleep, it would be infinitely more awkward to see her parents. Jane and Bingley were sweet and agreeable, and would make innocuous conversation about the ceremony or the wedding breakfast, rather than insinuations of poor jokes. Besides which, Duoro and Charles were wild with excitement at the idea of having a baby cousin to play with. They were very jealous that Julia and Laurie had little Margey to carry around and dress up when they had nothing but one of their father’s hunting hounds, who, any road, refused to remain long in the clothes they had put it in, and bit more than toothless baby Margey did. 

Jane and Bingley arrived first, with little Jenny, all three a little awed to be received at a ducal town house. Elizabeth herself was slightly nervous, for her life and Jane’s had seemed so decisively divided… and the last time they had seen each other, Elizabeth had been newly widowed and sobbing every few hours. 

But as soon as she saw Jane, the fear disappeared and in its place came a flood of affection and delight. Elizabeth had but to stand in the doorway for Jane to run into her outstretched arms with a delighted, “Lizzy!” 

“Jane!” she exclaimed, holding tight to her sister. 

“Oh Lizzy,” said Jane, drawing back to look at her. “Oh how well you look! And how glad I am to see you.”

“Dearest Jane,” said Elizabeth. “How well  _ you  _ look! I have so much to acquaint you with— but first I ought to acquaint you with my fiancé— do come in, pray. Arthur’s niece, Lady Burghersh is here, to act as housekeeper until I relieve her of that duty in a few weeks— though at the moment she is with the housekeeper. I will show you to your room so you may freshen up— oh, this  _ cannot  _ be Jenny?” 

Charles was coming up the steps with what seemed to Lizzy to be a fully grown toddler in his arms, though Lizzy knew Jenny was but three months past her first birthday. Jenny hid her face in her father’s collar.

“She hasn’t quite woken up yet,” said Charles, shifting her, so that he could free a hand to extend to Elizabeth. “Jenny’s a terrifically good girl and sleeps as soon as she’s put in a carriage. She was a perfect angel all four days from Derbyshire. Lizzy, I cannot tell you how pleased I am for you.”

Elizabeth bypassed the handshake to hug Charles, which pleased him a great deal. He was an affectionate man, who easily entered into the happiness of all those around him, and Elizabeth felt again her luck in having him for a brother-in-law. “Thank you. Do come in—“

“Well!” Charles exclaimed. “You have a very, er… unusual hat rack.” 

A footman was draping Jane’s bonnet and traveling coat on the statue of Napoleon in the hall. Elizabeth tended to block out its existence when she could and sighed. “I did ask for it to be moved but it is a gift from the Prince Regent. And— oh, here is Arthur. Your Grace, I have the very great pleasure of introducing you to my sister Jane, her husband Charles Bingley, and their daughter, Jenny.”

Arthur endeared himself to the Bingleys at once by greeting Jenny and saying, with a smile, when she shyly hid her face against Charles’s shoulder and gurgled, “She is only a little over a year, isn’t she? What a charming age that is. They begin to form such distinct personalities.”

Jane and Charles were eager to agree with this, and Arthur, who did love children, compared milestones, told a very entertaining story of the time little Lord Duoro had tried to stand up on his own and completely overturned the coal scuttle, and invited them into his study for tea. Arthur was determined to be charming and the Bingleys determined to be pleased, and Elizabeth let out a little sigh of relief. That was the first hurdle with her own family, finished. It was not much of one, for Elizabeth could not think of anyone who could possibly dislike Charles Bingley, or fail to find Jane anything but good and amiable, but she had worried that Jane might not like or might not approve of Elizabeth’s choice.

However, when they went upstairs so that Jane could relieve herself and wash off the dust of travel, Jane said, “I had no idea what a kind man the Duke of Wellington would be! That is— after he took you to Richard’s interment, I thought he must be, but my goodness, Lizzy! He is so very gracious.”

“Do you like him Jane?”

“Oh yes. I would like anyone whom you loved, but he is a very good man as well as a great man, and I think you will be happy.”

“Well, he has put me in the way of being able to bring you very nice presents,” said Elizabeth. It was always a delight to give Jane presents, for she always knew just what detail of a gift to particularly comment upon. Jane was also able to give good report of Elizabeth’s Darcy cousins as she tried on the Paris gown Lizzy had brought her. 

“Darcy has been of such help,” said Jane, “as both a friend and a magistrate, and Georgiana has been very good with Jenny. She will be very happy to see Kitty again— the two of them are very fast friends. I think they must write each other daily.”

“I hope they were not very shocked,” said Elizabeth. “Darcy, I know, does not like my fiancé.”

“I do not rightly understand why,” said Jane. “After all, he surely witnessed Lord Wellington’s kindness to you after Waterloo, and during the Season.”

“He also witnessed Arthur’s divorce and did not like it,” said Elizabeth. “But really, Arthur could not help it; his ex-wife instigated proceedings. And I cannot repine of it. There was nothing else to be done in those circumstances, for they were both making each other miserable and Kitty Jackson had found her true match. I dare to say that both Kitty and Arthur will be much happier in their second marriages than their first.”

Jane dimpled. “Darcy came down with us. I am sure he will call upon you soon and will see how happy you are, and how attentive, how kind Lord Wellington— ought I call him Lord Wellington?— is.”

When they came back down, Elizabeth was not astonished to see that though such a one as the Duke of Wellington had next to nothing in common in terms of background or life experience with a Mr. Bingley, who had only bought his estate that generation and who was still a silent partner in his father’s textile factories, Charles Bingley was so relentlessly good-natured and sweet-tempered, they were on first name terms. Arthur and Charles were deep in discussion of how to check potential farmland for drainage problems. 

“I didn’t mean to marry you for your connections, my dear,” said Arthur, standing and drawing a chair for her, “but I shan’t deny how immediately useful they are. Your brother here is full of magnificent advice on how to go about buying an estate. We younger sons are not taught much on that front, and he has just been through it.”

“You are buying an estate, Arthur?” Elizabeth asked.

“A grateful nation offered to buy me one,” said Arthur. “Can I convince you to look beyond your beloved Hertfordshire, my dear? Charles here has given me a polite warning that it might be, ah. Crowded.”

Charles coughed into his fist. 

Elizabeth exchanged looks with Jane. “It is possible for a woman to be settled too near her family.”

“Yes,” said Jane peaceably. “I think we can all agree that Hertfordshire might be considered too near, Your Grace.”

“Call me Arthur,” he offered. “It is equally possible for a man to be settled too near his. So, Elizabeth my dear, I must ask how you like Hampshire.”

“I have only been to Matlock in Hampshire, which borders the Channel,” said Elizabeth. “I went there immediately after Richard’s death so I… confess to you that I do not have fond memories of the seashore.”

“How about Basingstoke?”

“I have never been.”

“In 1814, the nation started negotiations for Stratfield Saye House and some land about it from Baron Rivers. The nearest city, if one can generously apply the word, is Basingstoke. I have no idea what happened to the negotiations given the divorce. Let me ring for the papers.”

As it turned out, the estate had been purchased for the Duke of Wellington after he survived the second assassination attempt, no doubt, Arthur joked dryly, so that his sons might have somewhere to live if a third time proved to be the charm. The papers and deeds had all been delivered to him, but he had not looked at them in the rush of settling the nerves of all European diplomats and monarchs, and in arranging his marriage to Elizabeth. Jane and Elizabeth, being the more responsible daughters of Mr. and Mrs. Bennet, were interested in all the reports from the interim steward and easily made them intelligible. This greatly surprised Arthur, and Lord and Lady Burgesh. Charles laughed at their astonishment. While he and Darcy had spent all February through June handling Luddites and managing and repairing mills, Jane had been running Charles’s estate in Derbyshire. 

“I was taught to run and manage a household,” said Lady Burgesh, “but….”

“Well, Your Ladyship, I must confess that Mrs. Bingley and I are the daughters of a country gentleman who let us run wild about his estate, when our mother was not ill and required us to run the household,” said Elizabeth, comparing two blueprints. “If ever we were curious about anything, our father taught us, or gave us the means to teach ourselves. Jane, this looks to me to be a terribly drafty house.”

“You may have to remodel very seriously if you wish to be at all comfortable in winter,” Jane agreed. “But it looks a very sound investment. I think the nation chose well.”

“My God, I am marrying wisely,” said Arthur, admiringly. 

 

***

 

Darcy called at Matlock House the next day, just after all the Bennets had noisily arrived. He looked overwhelmed by the chaos about him and though Lizzy nodded to him, she was more concerned with greeting her father than anything else.

Mr. Bennet embraced Lizzy very tightly, and said, a little gruffly, “Well, well child. This was hardly a surprise.”

“It wasn’t?”

“No. Your husband has been gallantly losing chess matches to me since… let me think, March or April? We have been playing by letter.”

Elizabeth had not known this, but blushed at this. She glanced over to Arthur, who was very obviously flirting with her mother. Mrs. Bennet was blushingly delighted.

“Clearly I ought to have left your mother at Longbourn,” Mr. Bennet said. “Though the scandal sheets will be very amusing, should your mother steal your fiancé.”

“Papa,” said Elizabeth, laughing.

“When your mother found out you were to be a Duchess, she fainted, and then did not speak for the next three days entire, except for the occasional exclamation of ‘The Duchess of Wellington!’ I daresay your affianced is used to very fine speeches in all languages for his defeating Napoleon, but I think your mother’s speechlessness is more remarkable a testimony to his greatness than anything else.”

“I am glad it only took becoming a Duchess to satisfy Mama.”

Mrs. Bennet came up and was clearly still dazed by Elizabeth’s good fortune. She embraced Elizabeth affectionately, with a muttered, “Lady Wellington! To think you married, to so great a man!”

Mary offered a sermon, much shorter than her usual, and Kity seemed a little subdued in her congratulations.

“Are you feeling well, Kitty?” Elizabeth asked, concerned.

“I….” She glanced about the room, anxiously.

Elizabeth linked arms with Kitty and drew her closer to the fire. “It feels as if summer hasn’t arrived yet, and I know your lungs are weak. Come warm up.”

“No, just… Lizzy, it may be awfully silly of me, but I don’t… understand.”

“Oh.” She ought to have expected this reaction from someone. Elizabeth pulled her light summer shawl tighter about her shoulders and said, “You do not understand why I am marrying again, when my soulmate has died?”

“I… that is… you are only supposed to marry your match—”

“And so I did.”

“What if Colonel Fitzwilliam was not your match?”

Elizabeth blinked at her. “He was, Kitty.”

“But….”

“We bore each others’ names.”

“But what if there was a different ‘Fitzwilliam’?”

“There isn’t,” said Elizabeth, a little confused. “Kitty, I think perhaps we are speaking at cross-purposes, or perhaps we are not understanding each other. I met my match and I married him. There is not and cannot ever be another Fitzwilliam for me, but I do not think that means that there is not and cannot ever be another man I love, and who loves me in return.”

“And the Duke of Wellington is that man?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said simply. 

Kitty looked uncertain and confused and said, “I must… I ought to go find Georgiana.”

Arthur came over then, and said, lightly, “Cold, my dear? We do seem to have missed summer and gone straight from spring to winter again.”

“Yes. That and my sister Kitty was… a little difficult about our marrying.”

“I always do have trouble with ‘Kitty’s,” he said dryly. “I suppose she does not quite understand your marrying again.”

“Marrying someone not my match,” said Elizabeth. “Which is… strange, in her, for my family, of all people, ought to know my soulmate died last June.”

Arthur waited for the Earl and Marjorie to heard all the Bennets upstairs before taking putting a finger to her chin and gently tilting it up so that she met his eyes. “Well now, sweet girl,” he said, gently, “perhaps  _ one  _ of your sisters is Romantic in her notions, and thinks those whose soulmates died before them must be alone forever, but the rest of your family seems to have realized that I love you, and think that perfectly good grounds for our marrying.”

Elizabeth smiled up at him. “I am not so  _ very  _ upset, or surprised. Kitty is not yet twenty. And really, Arthur, is not my loving you an equally good reason to marry?”

“A matter for the ecclesiastical courts, if ever I heard one,” replied he, and bent to kiss her.

It was a gentle, soft thing, like the brush of a cat’s tail against one’s outstretched hand.

Someone cleared their throat.

Arthur pulled back and looked heavenward. “Can I be of assistance—” He turned and he and Elizabeth both saw that Darcy had lingered in the drawing room, with Boatswain at his heels. Through the open door, they could hear the sound of shoe heels on marble, as the rest of the party withdrew upstairs. 

Arthur seemed amused. “Mr. Darcy. I did not expect to see you.”

Darcy glared at Arthur. “Did you not, sir?”

“No,” said Arthur, taking Elizabeth by the hand and drawing her to him. “Trouble up north, wasn’t there, that kept you from returning to London? Hm. I’m sure it must have taxed your skill, sir, as I was keeping peace in Paris and Cambrai and still managed to visit London at least once a month this winter and spring.”

Darcy moved from glaring to glowering. 

“It is good to see you, Darcy,” Elizabeth hastily intervened. “Thank you for coming down for the wedding; I am very sensible of such kindness.”   

“Yes,” said Arthur, raising Elizabeth’s hand to his lips. “We are to be married tomorrow. Fancy that.” To Darcy: “Elizabeth would have had us marry in Paris, last month, if she could have had her way.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Arthur, pray do not disgrace me before my relations, with these stories of my intemperance!”

“Intemperance, do you call it? It is hardly that, my sweet girl. You must forgive me for still liking to flaunt the proofs of your love. I have never come across its like before, and you cannot blame a man for taking pleasure in the possession of such a treasure.”

“I am marrying you tomorrow,” said Elizabeth, laughing and blushing. “There is no need to flatter me like this.”

“That is precisely the reason I do need to do it,” he replied, affectionately flicking her cheek with his forefinger. 

“Would you care to take a turn in the garden, Cousin Elizabeth?” Darcy asked abruptly. “We have not seen each other in some time.”

She had nearly forgotten he was there. Elizabeth replied, “Certainly. Arthur, if you will excuse us.”

“If I must,” he said, and playfully kept hold of her hand, as she stepped away, and then kissing it before releasing it.

“Rake,” she said fondly.

The weather outside was cold and blustery, threatening rain. Elizabeth drew her shawl tigheter about her. She would have welcomed Darcy’s arm, if only to draw on his warmth, but he walked frowningly, with his arms clasped tightly behind his back. Boatswain, better trained than he had been that winter, trotted devotedly at his heels.

Elizabeth attempted to talk of the weather, Georgiana, Boatswain, her meeting with Madame d’Arblay, and Paris without success. They lapsed into silence.

Darcy then abruptly asked, “How did this engagement come about?”

“The engagement came about as most engagements do,” said Elizabeth, cheerfully. “He asked and I accepted.”

“Elizabeth.”

She laughed. “I’m sorry Darcy, I am too happy to be sensible.”

Darcy looked away, moody and irritable. “That is clear enough.”

“What does that mean?”

“That you have rushed headlong into folly.”

Elizabeth turned to look at him quizzically, her bright mood dimming. “Darcy, I am sorry, but I really don’t understand what it is you are trying to tell me, or want from me.”

“Elizabeth,” he said, stopping, and staring at her, “I want you to realize the folly of this plan of yours. The Duke of Wellington is a rake of the first water.”

She watched Boatswain wander off to dig up one of the Earl’s flowerbeds. “Yes. I do realize that he  _ was _ .”

“ _ Is _ , Elizabeth. I do not know what he has told you, or what arts he has used upon you, but among men he makes no secret of his roguery. Do you think such a man will make you a good husband? Do you think he could make you happy?”

Elizabeth sighed. “In all honesty, Darcy, I do, because he loves me and I love him. If that will not convince you, I must tell you that he is a rake reformed. He has seen, and very painfully too, the true price of courtesans.”

“I am convinced that has only made him more cautious in his dissipations.”

“I have his assurances, or rather his heartfelt promises, that he wants and needs no other woman but me.”

“And you believe them?”

“Yes.”

He made a disbelieving noise.

“I hate to hear you talking of him this way. You hardly know him, Darcy. I know of your history with George Wickham, but there is a world of difference—”

“I know what men  _ like  _ him are.”

“No,” said Elizabeth, turning to look at him, “you do not, for I can assure you that Arthur Wellesley is nothing like Mr. Wickham. His Grace’s tastes and habits are more domestic than one unacquainted with him might assume, and his….” God, this was awkward to talk about with Darcy. “I  _ know  _ he will be satisfied with me and only me from this point on. He ventured abroad trying to find what he could not at home, but I can assure you that he will get what he desires at my hearthside. You saw it for yourself, all last January and early February. Darcy, I am surprised to hear you talking in this fashion. You always argue for the individual over the general.” 

“I am surprised,” said Darcy, looking really angry with her, “that you could be so blinded by flattery and false assurances to fail to see the reality of the situation. Do you believe it when he says he loves you?”

Elizabeth looked at him incredulously. “Darcy, you are being absurd. I would hardly be marrying him if I did not. I would hardly have—”

“Men of Wellington’s ilk,” said Darcy, “will say anything to their conquests. I am frankly astonished that he said ‘will you marry me’ in pursuit of you, and— well, I know your tender heart, I am sure you were inclined to believe him, and to trust in his promises of reform, for you are everything kind and loving to your friends. But Elizabeth, think of what you are doing. Can you be content to be one among his scores of lovers?”

Elizabeth was speechless with anger.

“Perhaps you will have the distinction of having been lied to most extravagantly, and being better remunerated for it— but I know you Elizabeth. I know you cannot be made happy with wealth or titles.”

“My recipe for a happy life includes a partner who respects me, my feelings,  _ and my judgement  _ as I respect theirs,” said Elizabeth, trying to maintain a hold on her temper. 

“Precisely,” said Darcy. “It’s not too late. Call off the engagement.”

Elizabeth wanted to slap him. “How  _ dare you  _ suggest such a thing? Do you think my judgement so poor that I would go from a first marriage where I had a husband who loved and esteemed me, and whom I loved and esteemed in return, to one where I am  _ nothing  _ to my husband?”

“I have seen very intelligent people fooled by rakes before. Elizabeth, I know he cannot make you happy—”

“How do you know, Cousin Darcy?” Elizabeth asked. “For you seem to be stuck on George Wickham, a man whom neither of has seen these four years and more, and you have not been listening to a word I say about Arthur—”

“You haven’t been listening to  _ me _ ,” said Darcy. “Shall I speak plain soldier? Elizabeth, the Duke of Wellington is a rake who takes pride in being hailed as a conqueror. He would say anything to achieve his objective. Because you are a virtuous woman, I am sure the challenge was all the better for him, but—

“Do you think then,” interrupted Elizabeth, whirling on him, standing before him on the path so that he, “that he is marrying me simply because it was the only way he would gain admittance to my bed?” 

Darcy colored but did not deny it. 

“Then listen carefully, Cousin Darcy,” Elizabeth said, voice shaking with anger. “If all His Grace wanted from me was what you are implying, he would have no need to marry me to get it.”

He jerked back a little and then schooled himself into stillness, as if trying to conceal the impact from a blow. Then he decided she hadn’t understood, and tried to say as much.

“No, I understood you perfectly,” said Elizabeth coolly. “From our first meeting, you never took the time to understand  _ me _ . I know  _ for a fact  _ that Arthur can be perfectly happy with  _ no other woman _ . I have several months of proof of his devotion to me, to our mutual compatibility, to his being  _ entirely satisfied  _ with what I and I alone can offer him. I will marry him tomorrow, because I love and respect him, and he loves and respects me, and that is all the reason I need.”

Darcy stared at her and then said stiffly, “Forgive me for taking up so much of your time,” and stalked off. Boatswain looked up quizzically and then bounded after him. 

Elizabeth was still shaking with anger and remained walking in the hedgerows. She was not surprised to hear the sound of Arthur’s boots on the gravel walkway; indeed, she rather suspected he had watched at the window, and come out as soon as he saw Darcy leave. 

“I take it the interview was as bad as I anticipated,” he said.

“Come here,” said Elizabeth, and kissed him passionately. 

He returned her embrace with equal ardor, before saying, “I think we won’t be missed for at least ten minutes, given how furious your cousin Darcy looked. Everyone will assume you had a row and expect you to take time to recover from such an ordeal .”

“Over here,” said Elizabeth, leading him to a bench she knew of, in a secluded grove of oak trees, and pushing him onto it. She folded her shawl and put it on the ground, before dropping to her knees. 

“Darling,” he said, rather surprised, as she undid the fall front of his trousers, “you needn’t.”

“I’d like to,” Elizabeth said, resting her hands on his thighs. “It is only— I’m….”

He pushed a deranged curl out of her face. “Yes, my love? Did Colonel Fitzwilliam not like you to do this?”

“No, he did,” she said, coloring. “It is only— the taste makes me feel ill, so he would finish… the, um, the usual way. Is that…?”

“Darling girl,” he said affectionately. “That’s hardly a problem. Just switch when you feel like it.” Then, sinking his fingers into her hair, added, “Is this alright? Just tap my leg if it ever gets to be too much.”

She felt a sudden flare of arousal and nodded, before bending to her task. It was easier with him to guide her like this, and though this usually did nothing for her, and was an act she engaged in out of a desire to please than a real longing for it, she began to very badly want him, thanks to the way her own anger had melted into desire, the hand fisted in her hair, the control he exerted over her, the rough curses and endearments he showered upon her. Elizabeth tapped his leg and, when released, climbed into his lap and sank down on him with a soft groan.

“Ah! Darling!” Arthur nuzzled her jaw, all rough affection.“I do wonder however I managed to convince so wonderful a creature as you to marry me.”

“Easily,” said Elizabeth, twining her arms about his neck. 

 

***

 

About a year later, and about nine months after his stiff, formal, letter of apology to Elizabeth, Darcy married one of Lady Jersey’s sisters-in-law, Lady Elizabeth Villiers. She did not know much about Lady Elizabeth, but Marjorie called her “a very good sort of woman,” and so Elizabeth wrote a very nice long letter of congratulations, and chose a hideous modern painting at the Paris exhibition as a wedding present.

(“I thought you liked Darcy,” said Arthur, examining the Gothic landscape of swirling colors she’d chosen.

“I do,” objected Elizabeth, then considered the whole of her acquaintance with Mr. Darcy. “Most of the time.”)

 

***

 

Elizabeth’s second wedding was nothing at all like her first. For one, it was absurdly crowded. A quick glance, as she waited in the back of the chapel, as Marjorie adjusted the fall of the white lace mantilla about her shoulders and down her back, was enough to determine that the church was full of people she normally only nodded to in ballrooms. She did not spot the Rosings or Pemberley branches of the Fitzwilliam family, which she was not terribly unhappy about. She hadn’t spoke to Darcy since their fight, and Lady Catherine had very coldly written that members of the Fitzwilliam family did not marry a second time. (Marjorie privately confided to Elizabeth her suspicions that Lady Catherine was enraged she would now forever have to give precedence to Elizabeth. The degradation was too much for Lady Catherine to bear with equanimity.)

And, unlike her first wedding, where her family’s nonsense took her concentration from her spouse, the great number of people meant that she could not even really spot her parents, or Arthur’s mother in the pews. Elizabeth had perhaps half a minute to herself, to take in the sight of Arthur standing at the altar, in full dress uniform, all over stars and medals. She loved to see him so, and it made it all the better that he had dressed this way for  _ her _ . 

Arthur drummed his fingers on the hilt of his dress sword. Elizabeth found this shew of impatience impossibly endearing. Then Lord Mornington, who was serving as a groomsman, with the Prince Regent and Lord Fitzroy, leaned forward and whispered something in his brother’s ear.

Arthur turned.

Elizabeth could tell the moment he saw her, for such a change came over him that her first, giddy thought was, ‘I wish the Darcys of the world could see that; no one who did could doubt Arthur loves me.’ Indeed, she felt almost intoxicated by his slow, slightly crooked smile, by the warmth of his gaze, the attitude of contentment that settled over him, as if he had put on his ermine cloak for the opening of the House of Lords. It was clear he very much liked her long, trailing gown of whiteworked jaconet, with its low neckline and all its soft, clinging pleats, her mantilla, the emerald and pearl bracelet about her wrist, and the new, matching necklace he had given her as a wedding present. When she reached the altar, and handed her nosegay of white roses and purple jacaranda to Jane, Arthur murmured, “By God, you make me wish I liked poetry.”

“Why is that, Arthur?” she asked, laughing a little. 

“So I might have words to do you justice. I joke about your being my patron goddess, but  _ really _ , my dear. ‘Divine’ doesn’t begin to describe you today. You look like you stepped off of the Acropolis.”

Elizabeth blushed and tried to turn her attention to the ceremony. It was shorter than her first marriage, for this was a second marriage for both of them and the Church of England had a very specific ceremony for it, but one part did move her unexpectedly. The archbishop asked them both to extend their left hands and gently took off Elizabeth’s wedding ring. Arthur had left his off even before Kitty had divorced him, which at first stymied the archbishop, before he realized he could use this as a jumping off point for an impromptu homily, on how, like a true gentleman, the Duke of Wellington had stepped aside at the proof of the true match between the former Duchess and the former tutor to his sons and how this noble sacrifice was now being rewarded, England expected every man to do his duty, etc.

Arthur stifled a sigh. He took Elizabeth’s old, battered, much scratched gold band from where the Archbishop had put it on the altar, and said, “Give me your right hand, my dear.”

Elizabeth did, a little confused. He slid the band onto her right ring finger. 

She nearly burst into tears right then in there, in front of God and the Archbishop of Canterbury, and nearly everyone of importance in English society. 

He smiled and squeezed her right hand, and didn’t let go for the rest of the ceremony.

Eventually the archbishop found his place in the book of Common Prayer, and the ceremony continued. Elizabeth could not have answered with any coherence as to what else happened; there was a new ring on her left hand, and she was signing ‘Elizabeth Fitzwilliam’ in the registry book before she felt capable of speaking without crying. Arthur set down his pen, and muttered to her, “I hope you don’t marry a third time, my dear, it’s damn near impossible to get all the titles into so small a space.”

Elizabeth laughed and put her arms about his neck to kiss him.

He whirled her about as if they were waltzing, and then turned to Duoro and Charles, patiently and shyly waiting with Lord Fitzroy. “Well, Duoro,” said Arthur, still keeping an arm about Elizabeth’s waist. “I went and took your advice. Mrs. Fitzwilliam is now the Duchess of Wellington. Are you pleased?”

“Yes,” said Duoro and then suddenly, impulsively, rushed up to Lizzy and flung his arms about her waist. 

She held him tightly and said, merrily, “It was so clever of you to think of it Duoro! I am already so very happy. Charles—”

Little Lord Charles needed no invitation. He flung himself at Elizabeth as well, and she held tightly to both of them, full up with love. Arthur looked at the three of them with such tenderness, she really did cry and managed to get out, “I have never been so happy! Oh Charles, please, don’t look alarmed. I cry whenever I feel too much of anything.”

“Lord and Lady Stornoway’s governess said she would take you to the wedding breakfast,” said Arthur. “Behave yourselves. I don’t want to hear that while you were playing at being guerillas in the Prince Regent’s house you knocked a Ming dynasty vase into a portrait of King Henry VIII, however much Henry VIII deserves to have a vase knocked into him. Lord Fitzroy will bring you back to Apsley House when you are tired and your stepmother and I will see you tomorrow morning. Alright?”

“Yes Papa,” they dutifully chorused. As soon as Lizzy released them, they bolted off like thoroughbreds at Newmarket, hooting and halloing for the Fitzwilliam children. 

“Welcome to motherhood,” said Marjorie, dryly. She and Lord Fitzroy had been their witnesses. “Let me help you with your train as you go out… hm.”

Two footmen had flung the doors of the church open to reveal a sudden thunderstorm. 

“Look at that,” said Arthur, eyeing the downpour. “A thoroughly English wedding.”

The honor guard rather valiantly struggled out, then returned indoors to exchange their sabres for umbrellas. 

“I’m sure that’s symbolic of something,” said Elizabeth, as the umbrellas somewhat sheepishly went up. It was a nice little tunnel to the carriage, but the cobblestones could not be seen under the two inches of refuse-laden water streaming down the road. She glanced back at her long train of whiteworked jaconet muslin, which would be soaked in an instant, and just as instantly stained, and then down at her shoes. She had been persuaded into something pretty rather than practical, and was now regretting her rather frivolous white kid slippers with their high silver ribbons, laced up the calf.

“Not to worry, my love,” Arthur said. “We’ll ford the stream together. Come on, gather your skirts.”

“Arthur, you cannot mean to carry me!”

“That is exactly what I mean to do. I fancy I am somewhat famous for having boots to withstand the elements.”

“But—“

“Let’s not make these good fellows wait in the rain longer than they must. Quicktime, now, Lady Wellington!”

She blushed in pleasure to be called so. Though she playfully complained it was unfair of him to bring out the great guns like that, she passed her nosegay to Marjorie and gathered up her skirts. Her husband (how her heart thrilled within her at the idea) seemed well pleased to gather her close to his chest, and kiss her thoroughly.

“Sir!” Then, laughingly, as she hooked an arm about his neck, “Arthur!”

“That’s better.”

Elizabeth was a little astonished to realize, as His Grace rather smugly paraded out, nodding to the men of the honor guard, that he was proud to be married to her— indeed, perhaps even self-congratulatory. He seemed almost to want to show her off. Elizabeth, who knew her besetting sin to be vanity, could not help but feel thrilled by it. That she should be a source of pride to so great and so accomplished a man! Elizabeth was rosy with pleasure, and kissed him in thanks when he deposited her in the carriage. There were cheers and wolf whistles at this, which, for once Arthur was inclined to find pleasing. 

“Settle down, you rascals,” he said, in tones of greatest good humor; and added, as he climbed into the carriage himself, “What is the world coming to, when a wife cannot thank her husband without comment?”

She laid her head against his shoulder. Elizabeth still took such comfort or of the scratch of gold braid against her cheek; it settled and soothed her for reasons she was not sure she could articulate. “Why isn’t the carriage moving?”

“Oh, I fancy the usual reason,” said Arthur, drawing the shades. “The mob got drunk and want to pull the carriage along themselves. It happened every time I went anywhere in England for months after Napoleon’s abdication, and got even worse after Waterloo.”

“They’ve unharnessed the horses,” Elizabeth reported, raising up the shade a little, “and are… drawing the carriage themselves? That seems terribly inefficient.”

“You had better grow accustomed to it,” said Arthur, hand resting on her lower back. “I do not know  _ why  _ the British public are mad for annoying my coachmen and unharnessing my carriage horses, but they are determined to do it. I suppose they intend it to be a compliment, their pulling my carriage, but it just slows things down and annoys everyone. Ah well. That gives us time.”

“For what?”

“I have a burning desire to know just how many times I can get you off in one day.”

Elizabeth blushed, even though she was delighted with him, and the hand now squeezing her thigh through the jaconet.  “And everyone says marriage reforms a rake.”

“A reformation is not a transformation,” he said dryly. “Besides, my dear, I love scandalizing you as much as you love being scandalized. It sets a good example for our married life to begin in that pattern. What record have I to beat? I think… I managed to get you off three times, last Saturday.”

“Your record, as you call it, is four,” she said, still very pink. “The day we were engaged. Twice before you proposed and twice after.”

“Ha,” Arthur said. “I had better get started now if I’m to beat that. Pull that window shade down again and come here, sweet girl.”

She did, though she weakly protested that they were in a carriage. 

“I’ve managed it before,” he said, pulling her onto his lap and pushing up the skirts of her gown, and taking a moment to admire her garters. “Very pretty. It’s such a pleasure to have a wife who dresses well.” He slid a hand between her legs and smirked. “For all your protestations, darling, you do seem interested in my plan.”

“I’ve wanted you since seeing you at the altar,” she admitted.

“You do have a fancy for red broadcloth and gold braid, don’t you,” Arthur said. He achieved his objective even before the coach moved, and whispered such licentious promises that Elizabeth was glad to see that the wedding breakfast was gaudy, overcrowded and awful. She felt no guilt whatever in acquiescing to Arthur’s suggestion, after cake had been distributed, that they sneak away to Apsley House.  

He didn’t wait for the coach to slow to a stop before opening the door and kicking down the steps. Elizabeth was flushed, her gown deranged and creased, her hair almost entirely undone. She scrambled to hide her loose curls under her mantilla and resisted when Arthur tried to pull her to him and out the carriage. “ _ No _ , Arthur, I look—”

“You look ravishing,” he said.

“I look  _ ravished _ ,” she said, driving the comb of brilliants back into the hair at the crown of her head.

“My dear, you  _ were _ ,” he said, smirking.

“Not so loud, darling,” Elizabeth begged, as two footmen with umbrellas came running out of the house. “We’ll have all the servants gossiping.”

“If we don’t have all the servants gossiping I shan’t be satisfied,” he said. “Come here, Your Grace, and take what’s coming to you.”

She submitted with pleasure and let him carry her in, and up to their bedroom.

 

***

 

They honeymooned at Stratfield Saye. It rained nearly the entire time, which was all to the good, as they seldom left the bedroom. Elizabeth was not sure who among the new servants had leaked this information to the press, but as soon as she saw the new cartoons, she had half a mind to call Mrs. Pattinson home early from Ireland and send her ferreting through the servants, to find out who had told the British public that the Duke and his new Duchess of Wellington only emerged from their bedroom for meals, and the occasional, not terribly good attempt at playing a duet for piano and violin, which, more often than not, would stop halfway through, not to be resumed for at least half an hour. The British press seized upon this with glee. The variations of ‘A Very English Wedding’ and the honor guard with umbrellas upraised gave way to much cruder items in the paper and cartoons. 

Arthur did not mind this at all, and indeed, had requested he be sent all the cartoons that make jokes about how disheveled Elizabeth had been upon her arrival at Apsley House, after her wedding breakfast. Elizabeth found this less amusing.

“Well, darling, take it this way,” said Arthur, adding some of his favorites to a pile by his side of the bed, “you have a husband who loves you madly, and the world is well aware of it.” He paused to contemplate a cartoon entitled, ‘A successful siege,’ and used some creative crosshatching to make the crenellations of a castle look like a woman’s petticoats. The canon in the foreground was a metaphor too obvious to dignify with a remark. “Hm. This joke’s been done before and better too. This one we needn’t keep.”

“Hmph,” said Elizabeth, who was skimming a ballad set to the tune of a popular drinking song, entitled ‘Lo, How the Wild English Rose Ensnared the Mighty Oak.’ There were some very questionable pieces of gardening advice and a number of metaphors that did not quite work. 

“You’ll like this one, my dear,” he said, handing her a cartoon. Now that she was out of mourning and a public figure, the cartoonists had all decided that Elizabeth was tiny and comprised of 80% white muslin and 15% hair and 5% eyes. This creature was ankle-deep in mud, but had raised her skirts and one leg to reveal a Wellington boot.

‘I have done with Mud,’ read the speech bubble, ‘and am very pleased now to possess a WELLINGTON. Indeed, I suggest all Ladies acquire such a one if they wish to never set foot outdoors again.’ 

“At least I’m fully dressed in this one,” said Elizabeth. She’d seen one or two where she was in nothing but Wellington boots and speech bubbles. She had never before seen quite so many jokes on the lower class euphemism of ‘knocking boots.’

When they returned to London, Elizabeth was the subject of many an upper-class innuendo, and passed most of the two weeks of her society visits blushing continually. Marjorie found it hysterically funny, but was a good enough friend that she collapsed into wheezing fits of laughter only in the coach. 

“Oh God,” said Elizabeth. “You too?”

“And I, dear sister,” said Marjorie. “I just— it’s too absurd, listening to everyone suggesting that you held him off so long and with such cruel persistence that of course he wished to take his marital rights as soon and as often as possible, once you were married.”

“It is a little amusing,” Elizabeth conceded. “I suppose it is better the scandal is that my husband wants me intemperately rather than not at all.”

Indeed, Elizabeth had been a little afraid that now their relationship had no aspect of secrecy, no allure of the forbidden, Arthur would not want her as much or as often. But it proved to be the opposite. He was enormously proud of their marriage— in fact, rather smug that he had secured her as a wife and he seemed inclined to flaunt this fact if he was ever given the opportunity to do so. He was delighted to have her constantly on his arm or seated beside him without question, with his new ability to introduce her as, “my wife Elizabeth,” and publicly doted upon her.

Though she sometimes wished she did not enjoy this as much as she did, Elizabeth felt herself blossoming under this steady devotion, growing bolder, more confident, letting happiness flood into all the places that had been closed off with grief and misery. Her own reserve melted, and she was sure she made herself ridiculous, with the number of times she turned to look for him when he was absent, her inability to hide her pleasure when he kissed her hand or, as was becoming his habit, he tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, and covered her fingers with his other hand. 

“You do seem to enjoy showing me off, Arthur,” she said one evening, when he’d pulled her out of a rout party and into a garden. “It’s as if no woman has ever loved you before.”

“None has, as you do,” he said, almost matter-of-factly. 

This made her feel rather sad for him, so she tugged lightly on his arm. Arthur paused in the walk to look down at her, and she raised herself on her toes to kiss him. 

He lightly flicked her nose when she was done and said, “And you cannot deny a grizzled old veteran the pleasure he takes in somehow having managed to secure such a pretty, charming little thing as his wife.”

“Stop it, Arthur, you are the handsomest man in England,” said Elizabeth. 

“Oh my sweet girl,” he said, affectionately. “I am so very glad you are my partisan.”

“I have always been,” she protested, hoping he would steal another kiss— though really, could he steal that which she so willingly gave him?— and said, “It is only now that I can fight outright without having to resort to subterfuge.”

“I cannot tell you how much more I enjoy these things when I have a partner to face ‘em with me. Though I confess I should much more enjoy taking you back to Apsley House, to work on another joint project.” 

“What, redecorating the drawing room?”

“I did promise you a child, didn’t I?” he asked. 

Elizabeth blushed. “Several, in fact.”

“I had better make good on my promise, shouldn’t I? I mean to be a thoroughly indulgent husband, my dear; I shall give you anything you wish.”

“You,” she said, sliding her gloved hands up his chest, “are  _ incorrigible. _ ” 

And the result was that, shortly after returning to France she actually found herself with child. It delighted and unnerved her, and after Mrs. Pattinson confirmed her suspicions, Elizabeth would not trust this news until she had seen a doctor as well as a midwife; and even after that, she went to Colonel Pascal to verify.

“Well,” he said, “I shan’t put you through the indignity of a physical examination, but based on what you have told me, it seems to me very likely you are expecting.”

Elizabeth pressed her hand to her abdomen, self-consciously, unsure what to do or say, or how to respond. It all seemed so improbable and bewildering to her. “Are you quite sure?”

“Mmm, not  _ quite _ , but  _ sure _ ,” said Colonel Pascal. “You said you are now seven weeks late, are you not?”

“Yes.”

“Then wait one more. If there is nothing, then I think you may be  _ quite  _ sure you are with child. Until then, you may put it out of your mind, if you like.”

This was difficult to do, for Elizabeth began to feel seasick on land after another week had passed. She felt strange in her own body, tired all the time, and cried whenever she heard music. At the end of the week, she found herself laying in bed, weeping over the sound of a milkmaid on the street below singing out that she had (what else?) milk for sale. Arthur was moved to ask, “My sweet girl, don’t take this the wrong way, but I am relatively sure you are with child. I confess that I can think of no other reason for you to be so moved by the idea of milk.”

“I could have been weeping over the memory of Lady Jersey’s village fete,” Elizabeth drying her eyes on his nightshirt.

“By the by, did you call upon Caro Lamb in your round of visits?”

“I called upon Lady Melbourne and Caro was there. I thanked her for her good wishes and then Caro claimed  _ Glenarvon  _ brought us together and I suddenly found that we had to leave to call upon the Countess Lieven.”

“ _ Glenarvon  _ did bring us together, in a way. Did you not throw that book at an assassin?”

“I did, but I’m not naming my baby after Caro Lamb,” said Elizabeth.

“Darling, I wasn’t asking you too— oh God, why are you crying now?”

“I don’t know,” she wept, feeling horrifically frustrated with herself. “But I have now gone two months without—  I think I am going to be sick. Excuse me.” 

“You’re pregnant,” said Arthur, rather delighted, and was insufferably proud of having impregnated her so quickly for weeks afterwards. 

 

***

 

Scarcely had Elizabeth announced her news, and been buried under more letters and well wishes than even her marriage had commanded, than the Prince Regent decided that it was time for him to see the battlefield of Waterloo. 

Arthur sent His Royal Highness directions to Belgium, and offered the Prince Regent the pick of his aides. The Prince Regent protested that no, no, he very much wished the Duke of Wellington to shew him the battlefield and to explain all that had occurred. Elizabeth had known the Prince Regent’s wedding breakfast would come with conditions. She hadn’t expected the conditions to be quite so severe as this. 

“Can we not use this as an excuse?” Elizabeth asked. Their linked hands rested on the now pronounced curve of her abdomen. She pressed their hands down. 

“Using your pregnancy as a shield? Tsk tsk Lady Wellington. I somehow doubt that’s recommended in  _ The Art of War. _ ”

“I’ve always been particularly good at improvisational weaponry,” she replied.

Arthur had been resting his head upon her bare breast and raised his head to look at her with fond exasperation. “I cannot deny that. Hm. I know you hate it, but the Prince Regent still thinks you a delicate, fainting sort of creature….”

“Oh alright,” she said. “The things I do for you, Arthur! I would not feign to be St. Lizzy of the Muddy Petticoats for any reason other than getting you out of a tiresome engagement with the Prince Regent.”

“For this sacrifice, I salute you,” he said, and, choosing to interpret this the drawing room rather than barracks room way, kissed her thoroughly. 

Arthur sent a polite note that his wife was undergoing a difficult first pregnancy and he dare not leave her side. The Prince Regent offered his hearty congratulations and insisted that the Duchess of Wellington accompany them. He would have his own doctor accompany them. His doctor was a man chosen more for his being in fashion than his being competent. Elizabeth pretended to an irrationality not far from her actual fears and insisted that she would see no doctor but Colonel Pascal. He had been the person to see to the Duke of Wellington right after the assassin, and she trusted no other medical man with the life and safety of the Duke’s expected child.

Colonel Pascal came to her a few days later with a perfumed letter, and said, “Lady Wellington, I seem to have been appointed personal surgeon to the Prince Regent. As I have never before met, or even  _ seen  _ the Prince Regent, I imagine you have something to do with it?”

Elizabeth, who was being dramatic on a divan, felt a little annoyed that she could not be more so. It was difficult to sink dramatically onto a piece of furniture when one was already prostate. “I suppose I must, but I really haven’t any idea how I accomplished it. His Royal Highness wants a private tour of Waterloo.”

“I am not entirely seeing the connection.” 

“His Grace doesn’t want to go, so I said that I have an exceptionally dangerous pregnancy and dare not stir out of the reach of my doctor. And Arthur, being a good husband, will not abandon me in this, my time of dire need and sickness unto death.”

“All you have is bad morning sickness,” he replied dryly. 

“Morning sickness unto death,” replied Elizabeth cheekily.

“It’s hardly that severe,” he replied, skimming his letter. “So I suppose I’m now part of this awful royal procession to Waterloo.”

“It seems like it. I’m dreadfully sorry Pascal, but you can always use it to convince the Prince Regent of your vinegar theory of miasmas. And you can add that you are one of the Prince Regent’s own doctors to your calling cards. He didn’t ask you to resign your commission, I suppose?”

“No.”

“There you are,” said Elizabeth. “I have given you all these lovely benefits. I don’t suppose you could write back and say that in your professional opinion the Duchess of Wellington is a great deal too ill to be moved?”

“I am not going to lie to the Prince Regent,” said Colonel Pascal. 

“How dreadfully disobliging of you.” 

And so Elizabeth found herself someplace she told herself she’d never visit, in a condition she never thought she would be in. It felt very odd to be on a battlefield and have everyone refer to her as ‘Lady Wellington’ or ‘Your Grace’ instead of ‘Mrs. Fitzwilliam.’ And, of course, it had taken the Prince Regent three months to settle all his plans, so Elizabeth felt so hugely pregnant she would tip over at any moment. Arthur was tense and unhappy, and the only outlet he had was to fuss over her. Elizabeth was glad to make herself— or rather her pregnancy— an excuse to get out of anything she did not wish to do, and spent most of her evenings sitting in her room with Mrs. Kirke, playing Patience, or sitting with her husband by the fire, as he quietly read his paper and she ruined muslin trying to make baby clothes too complex for her indifferent skill at the needle. 

During the day she could not always get out of being carted about to places the Prince Regent found of interest, though she tried her best to come up with increasingly elaborate medical problems to keep from seeing places where her friends had died. There was only one place she went quietly, without protest, or without first stealing one of Colonel Pascal’s medical textbooks and insisting that she had some new and rare disease. The Prince Regent had a great desire to see Mont St. Jean, the Protestant Church where most of the English officers had been buried. Elizabeth went into the carriage without a word and merely held tight to Arthur’s arm. 

When the Prince Regent and all his entourage were occupied in looking about the church, Elizabeth squeezed her husband’s arm. This was enough; he nodded and said, “Do you want Mrs. Kirke with you, or Colonel Pascal?”

“I think….” Elizabeth paused. She had fallen into the habit of rubbing circles over her navel when she was uneasy, as if to reassure her child that no similar alarums or worries would ever visit little Lady Definitely-Not-Caroline Wellesley, and flattened her palm against her stomach. “No, I… I want to go see it alone.”

“I’ll come find you when we’re done here,” said Arthur, quietly. 

Elizabeth snuck out, as best she could given her size and her current ungainliness. It did not take her long to find all the graves of the Waterloo dead, but it took her longer than anticipated to find Colonel Fitzwilliam’s, for weeds had grown about the tombstone. 

She was utterly appalled by this and lowered herself to her knees, ripping out the weeds herself, clearing away dirt and dead leaves until each graven word could be clearly seen. Arthur found her there still in that attitude, awkwardly kneeling before Colonel Fitzwilliam’s gravestone, weeding with her right hand, her left curved protectively, now habitually, about her stomach. Arthur didn’t say anything. Elizabeth was grateful to him for it; for his quiet understanding. She sat back on her heels when the weeds had all been cleared, and contemplated the stone. 

He rested his hand lightly, gently between her shoulder blades; more an affirmation of his presence than anything else. 

“I haven’t,” Elizabeth said, and then carefully corrected herself, “I  _ hadn’t _ … I hadn’t been back since….”

“I know, my dear,” Arthur said gently. He had been there, after all, the last time she had stood before this gravestone. 

“And I remember how terribly muddy it was, all those… piles and piles of bare dirt, it was so awful, and now there’s… there’s weeds growing up so thick you can scarcely see the names of the men buried here. And it….”

Since becoming pregnant, Elizabeth was much quicker to cry than even she usually was, and now her vision blurred. She swallowed and asked thickly, “Arthur, did you ever visit Ned’s grave?”

“No,” he said, after a minute. “Kitty told me, of course, that her brother had been shipped home in a brandy barrel and was buried in Ireland, in the family cemetery, as soon as she learned of it, but she....” He sighed, and moved his hand to rest on the exposed nape of Elizabeth’s neck, his fingers brushing the sort wisps of hair that always escaped from pins and pomade. “We never talked of our marks, after the godawful wedding night, but I realized then that she knew. She’d guessed. Or perhaps Ned had told her, though that seems unlikely to me. We were both horribly embarrassed to realize we were a match, since we hadn’t the least desire to sleep with one another. Even after we realized Plato was our particular gospel there was still such a risk of misinterpretation, of having the purest friendship of one’s life tarnished and considered something shameful and tawdry by the general public. But to return to the point, Kitty guessed and I knew her interpretation was the one Ned and I had always feared, and killed any desire I had to visit Ned’s grave. All her family would think what she did. I’m not particularly proud of the spree I went on after that.”

“I suppose that was when you started going after Napoleon’s mistresses. You know, there would be nothing shameful about it if it had been—”

“Yes, my dear, I know you’d think that, given your first husband. But I didn’t want— and still don’t want— the truest friend of my life to be called anything but my friend by the public, or by the history books. I think, given your friendship with Colonel Pascal, and Lady Honoria, you can understand the desire to have your soulmate recognized as what they were to you specifically?”

“I do,” she said, leaning into his touch. 

They fall into a silence, one brought about not from lack of things to say, but a surfeit of them, and so much of it impossible to speak of directly. They had been felt for themselves the inadequacy of words to encompass the limitless scope of loss.  

“It feels fresh still,” she said helplessly. “Though time has passed, I know it is, I have proof of it in these old weeds…and my own old, cast off widow’s weeds—”

“I know,” he said. 

“What a wife I have turned out to be,” said Elizabeth, thickly, dashing the tears off her cheeks with a gloved hand. “Weeping over the passage of time, and her dead soulmate—”

“Darling girl,” he said, tightening his grip in a way that made Elizabeth feel a very sudden and inappropriate stab of desire for him. “Don’t joke about such things. Do you begrudge me my moody Januarys?”

“No.” Elizabeth felt some of the tension draining from her. There was such comfort in being so perfectly understood; to show her scars and see a matching set. 

“It is hard, my dear, because the old injuries will always pain us and flare up when least convenient, but we all must soldier on as best we can. There’s no other alternative. Come, Lady Wellington; we are wanted in Brussels.”

A look was enough to make him realize she could not get up on her own.

“Ah. Right. Well, as I am the cause of your  _ current  _ predicament….” He moved his hand from the back of her neck and offered it to her. 

Elizabeth took it, and awkwardly pulled herself up. “Ugh. I’m covered in mud again.”

“Just a spot of dirt,” Arthur said, brushing it off with his free hand. “There we are. Good as new, or nearly.”

“Lady Wellington,” called Mrs. Kirke, appearing in the door to the church, “do you need a hand? We are all about to head back.”

“No, Beatrice,” said Elizabeth. “I’m fine.” To Arthur she said, “You know, I have always loved the name ‘Beatrice.’ That might be better than ‘not Caroline,’ and mark our daughter out for a spectacular military career of her own.”

And hand in hand they walked away from the graveyard, towards all that awaited them.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, with that, the 'Ever Fixed Mark' series is FINISHED! Thank you all so much for your comments, your support, your kudos, and your indulgence for this very long Choose Your Own Husband adventure! You can find me on tumblr as amarguerite if you want to chat, or read my meta ramblings about this fic series. (Also check the first comment below for a special message regarding the Colonel Fitzwilliam/Elizabeth/Darcy ending everyone has asked for, but I myself did not feel capable of writing.)


End file.
